


Another Time

by Ruchira



Series: Episode Additions [4]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Episode Related, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 33,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26992045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruchira/pseuds/Ruchira
Summary: Episode addition to "11:59," (5x23) written in much the same fashion. Ensign Tom Paris mentioned an ancestor who flew the first orbital glider over the Martian plateau. This is his story. Essentially, this is what the episode would have been if it was a Paris episode instead of a Janeway episode.
Relationships: Tom Paris/B'Elanna Torres
Series: Episode Additions [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969783
Comments: 20
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1—2375**

Ensign Tom Paris yawned deeply, an action not missed by the Doctor, sitting immediately to his left. "You look like you can use some rest, Mr. Paris," the EMH scolded lightly.

"You're probably right, Doc," Paris replied, just as lightly. "And I can't even blame it on the shifts in Sickbay."

The other crewmembers chuckled at the joke as Paris stood to make his exit. "Thanks again for having us over, Captain," he said, nodding toward Captain Kathryn Janeway. "And I'll look into those Mars missions for you, if you'd like."

"I would appreciate that, Tom," Janeway replied. "I expect a full report in the morning. And next time, we'll see about dragging B'Elanna away from her engines long enough to join us."

Paris grinned back at her, rolling his eyes slightly; they all knew that B'Elanna would almost always prefer the company of her warp core to groups of people. "Yes, ma'am," he replied cheekily. Nodding goodnight to the others, he stepped out of the captain's quarters and into the corridor.

Crossing the threshold into his own quarters a few minutes later, he was met with an unexpected surprise. "Hi," he said toward the room's other occupant, slightly confused. "I thought you would be working on those warp modifications all night."

"I was," Lt. B'Elanna Torres replied. "I am, actually," she corrected, gesturing toward the computer monitor at Paris' desk, where she was sitting. "I decided I needed some company, but when I got here, you were nowhere to be found."

"I was at the Captain's," Paris replied, crossing the room to collapse onto his couch. "Harry, Seven, and I went in for a status meeting, which turned into a conversation about ancestors, of all things. Apparently, Neelix got her thinking about one of her ancestors, a Shannon O'Donnell, so we were trading stories."

"Anything interesting?" Torres asked, getting up from her chair to join Paris on the couch.

Paris chuckled slightly. "Apparently, Harry's 'Uncle Jack' is just as uneasy about disturbing others as Harry is. He piloted a crew in stasis for six months to Beta Capricus, discovered that Beta Capricus didn't actually exist, and piloted all the way back without waking up any of the crew."

Torres laughed quietly. "That sounds like Harry."

"Yeah, it does, doesn't it?" Paris agreed. "It was the captain's story that got me thinking. She was telling us how this ancestor-O'Donnell-was involved in one of the early Mars missions. I went through a phase as a kid, memorized everything about all of the Mars missions from the 1970's through the terraforming, and I don't remember a Shannon O'Donnell anywhere. It made me wonder how much any of us really know about any of our ancestors." He lapsed into a thoughtful silence for a few seconds. "So, what about you? Any notable forbearers?"

"Not that anybody has told me," Torres said quietly. Realizing his faux pas, that Torres wasn't close enough to any relatives to have heard any stories, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close and planting a kiss on the top of her head. They sat that way for a few moments in companionable silence before Torres spoke again. "What amazing Paris story did you have to tell?"

He chuckled at her choice of words. "There's really not much to tell. It wasn't until a few generations ago that anyone in my family had really done anything of note. Most of my ancestors were farmers, early colonists, and the like. When I was a kid, my dad told me about a colonel in the United States Air Force, Samuel Paris, who was the first person to fly an orbital glider over the Martian plateau. That's what first sparked my interest in Mars." He lapsed into silence again before continuing. "Although now, after hearing about Captain Janeway's ancestor and how much the stories have changed over the years, I can't help but wonder how much of what my dad had told me was actually true."

"I'm sure he didn't intentionally lie to you."

"No, I'm sure he didn't," Paris agreed. "But I don't think any of the captain's relatives intentionally lied to her about her ancestor, either. It's one of those things that every time the story is told, it's changed slightly, until it doesn't even resemble the truth anymore." He lapsed into silence again, trying to recall as much of the story as he could. "According to my father, Colonel Paris wanted to be a pilot from the time he was a kid and studied very hard— _that_ might have been manufactured by my father—and entered the United States Air Force Academy. He was a decorated pilot through the Third World War and was key in the rebuilding after the war was over. The Vulcans helped in that after first contact in 2063, and people began to focus on exploration again, and Mars was the closest target. The Ares missions made it as far as landing on the surface and setting up some temporary shelters, but they were scrapped in 2032 in favor of the war effort after Ares IV disappeared. Colonel Paris was chosen to lead the new missions to Mars, and in 2065, flew the orbital glider over the plateau." He shrugged a shoulder. "That's pretty much all I know about him, and I don't even know how much of that is true. I know about the glider flight, because that's all documented, but I don't have any solid proof of any of the rest of it. It was, after all, more than three hundred years ago."

"It shouldn't be too difficult to find records from three hundred years ago," Torres pointed out.

"Three hundred years, no. Three hundred and fifty is another story. Events weren't recorded all that well during the war, and many records from before were destroyed." He shrugged a shoulder and gave her a quick grin, ready to forget about the whole thing. "But anyway, how was your day?"

Torres shrugged. "Nothing exciting happened. With any luck, we'll have the modifications completed by next week, that's been what's been occupying my attention for the past few weeks. I still have a few more hours of work on that to do tonight."

"Then I won't keep you from it any longer," Paris replied, giving her a grin as he leaned in for a quick kiss. "Besides, as the Doctor pointed out, I need to get some sleep. You staying here tonight?"

"Do you mind?"

"You know I would never kick you out of my quarters," Paris said with another grin as he got up and headed toward the sleeping area. "Just come to bed at some point, okay?"

Torres rolled her eyes at Paris's knowing expression. "Goodnight, Tom."

The chronometer on Paris's bedside table read 0347 when he woke, the remnants of a strange yet not disturbing dream fading away. He turned toward the warm body curled up next to him and smiled; he enjoyed waking up next to her, even when there was no sex involved. _Maybe you should do something about that_ , a small voice chided him before he banished that thought to the back of his mind. They had been through enough obstacles already, between her depression, his demotion, her near-death experience, his time caught in a gravity well, and their all-too-recent encounter with Seven in the mess hall, which, amazingly enough, didn't cause the usual two-steps-back part of the dance of their relationship he was expecting. In fact, it almost seemed to have the opposite effect; with the exception of a few late night duty shifts, they rarely spent the night apart, and B'Elanna had gone so far as to install sound-proofing panels in both of their quarters. _Not that they're getting much use_ , Paris mused with a sigh. With as much time as B'Elanna had been putting into the warp modifications, all she had energy for at the end of the day was sleep. _Did she say they'll be complete next week?_

 _Well, now you've done it_ , the voice inside his head mocked. Sleep now the furthest thing from his mind, Paris slid out of bed, careful not to wake the sleeping half-Klingon next to him. Although research was not quite the activity he had in mind, he replicated a glass of water and took a seat at his desk in front of his computer console.

Just as he thought, there was no one with the name Shannon O'Donnell or Shannon Janeway associated with any of the Mars projects. He saved those results to a PADD, with the intent of showing the captain the next morning. As an afterthought, he expanded the search on the Janus missions, 2064-2072.

"Tom?" He straightened at the sound of B'Elanna's voice from the doorway into his sleeping area. "What are you doing?"

"Hey," he replied, giving a quick apologetic smile. "I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. I've just been doing a little reading on the Mars missions."

"Hmm," Torres replied, crossing the small room to look at the monitor over Paris's shoulder. She frowned slightly at the image on the display. "I don't see the family resemblance."

"This was taken over three hundred years ago," Paris replied with a laugh. The man staring back at them was in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair cut short, his expression neutral except for what Paris interpreted to be a humorous expression in his bright blue eyes. "It's not hard to find information on Colonel Paris during the Janus missions, but I haven't been able to find anything about his life before 2064."

"There should be something, if he was the decorated pilot your father told you he was," Torres pointed out. She leaned forward and tapped the display lightly with a fingernail, indicating another name from the Janus missions. "Did you see this? The name of the mission's physician."

"Colonel Anika Paris, MD," Paris said in wonder. "I never noticed that before."

"His wife?"

"I'd assume so," Paris replied, amused. "After all, he had to have had at least one son."

"Well, this is all very fascinating," Torres said after a moment of silent reading. "But it's far too early in the morning to be researching early Mars missions. I'm going back to bed." She made it about halfway back to the sleeping area before turning back to Paris, a come-hither look on her face that he was never able to resist. "Well? Are you coming?"

She didn't have to ask twice.


	2. 2026

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that the events in this story are uncomfortably close in time to real life.

Sam Paris glanced up at the inside of the closet door at the sound of the curfew bell before returning his attention to the book open on his bent knees. As best as he could figure, he still had fifteen to twenty minutes before they realized he wasn't in bed and figured out where he was. Best case scenario, they would believe his claims that he had been reading so intently that he hadn't heard the bell, and they would send him to bed with nothing but a stern warning. Worst case, he would get fresh marks on his knuckles. It all depended on which nun found him.

It was hardly his first time staying up past curfew—in fact, his knuckles were still bandaged from the last time he was caught—but in his mind, the nuns brought it upon themselves. Nine o'clock may have been a decent time for lights-out for the younger boys, but for Sam and the other boys eleven and older, it was far too early. Not only that, but the noise level in the library and the pestering of the younger boys made it all but impossible to read while everyone else was awake. Sam had probably begun the practice of hiding with his books for as long as he had been able to read them. For a brief period of time, he hid under one of the pews in the sanctuary, by far the quietest place of the Catholic boys' orphanage, but the paddling that resulted after he was caught convinced him that it was time to seek new and better hiding places. He could think of very few places on the campus that he hadn't used—the key was not to use any location frequently enough that it would become the first place they checked. They other key was to keep things from looking out of the ordinary. For the past week, he had made sure that they light to this particular closet was on every time he walked by it, in order to get the nuns accustomed to the sight of the sliver of light under the door.

He held his breath at the sound of voices out the corridor, speaking in tones too soft for him to understand. He exhaled after he heard the footsteps retreat further down the hallway, and turned his attention back to the book on his lap, silently mouthing the words as he read. His reading material had always been varied, consisting of whatever the parishioners and local libraries donated. He had taught himself Spanish from the sounds of the nuns talking and the various books he found in that language when he was younger. His Latin was still a bit rusty, due to the few classes the school offered and the few times he heard it at services, and he had to abandon his efforts to read through a Latin prayer book a few years before. Two years ago, he had been caught with what he believed the nuns called a "drug-store romance", which not only resulted in getting his knuckles rapped, but earned him extra Hail Mary's for a week. By some miracle or stroke of luck, he had managed to make it through all seven of the Harry Potter books without getting caught—those would have resulted in some sort of extra punishment, he was sure. He had just started a new book this week, one he was forced to admit was over his head, but he refused to give up on—a textbook from one of the local community colleges called _The Physics of Flight_.

"Samuel Thomas Paris," a stern voice said from the opened closet door. Paris glanced up in surprise, not having heard the door opening, and breathed a silent sigh of relief; it was Sister Rosa, one of the younger nuns and one most likely to send him to his room without any punishment. He fixed her with one of his most innocent looks, his bright blue eyes wide. "Lights out was twenty minutes ago."

"Was it?" Sam asked, his voice laced with disbelief. "I'm sorry, Sister. I didn't hear the curfew bell."

Sister Rosa sighed, probably trying to decide whether or not she believed him. "What are you doing in the closet, anyway?"

This time, the expression he put on was a slightly sheepish one. "It's so hard to read in the library, with all the noise that the little kids make." Fortunately for Sam, Sister Rosa was still new enough to the orphanage that she didn't know that he had been hiding in closets and attics and the orphanage vans to read since he was four.

"Well, okay," Sister Rosa replied, still sounding uncertain. She sighed again. "Hurry up and get into bed, and I won't tell Mother Maria about this."

"Thank you, Sister," Sam replied, quickly scrambling to his feet, his textbook under his arm. He started to head toward the dormitories, but Sister Rosa halted him, using her hands to attempt to provide some order to his disheveled dark locks.

"You need a haircut, Samuel," Sister Rosa said with disapproval as Sam ducked out from under her grasp.

"I'll be sure to put extra attention to combing it until I can go to the barber next," Sam replied, trying to get away from the nun before Mother Maria found him in the corridor. She was a little too quick with the ruler to the knuckles for Sam's tastes.

He was well on his way to the dormitories when the sound of voices from Father O'Reilly's office halted his progress. One of the voices he recognized as Father O'Reilly. The other he was sure he had never heard before. He had to sneak closer to the slightly opened door to make out what they were saying, and once he heard a few words, he wouldn't have been able to move away even if he wanted to.

"…Colonel Green…." the unknown voice said, prompting Sam to inch forward, hoping to catch more of the conversation. He knew about the self-proclaimed Colonel, the leader of an eco-terrorism group in Oregon. Internet access wasn't universal among the boys at the orphanage, and coming across newspapers or magazines was hit and miss, but Sam had read enough to know that Green wasn't anyone he would want to meet in a dark alley. In fact, he seemed similar to the Adolf Hitler of Germany ninety years before, advocating the "cleansing" of the human race to get rid of impurities. Sam wasn't sure where Green stood on orphans, but he was fairly certain he wouldn't like it. "…Columbia River dams…war declared…"

_War?_ Sam wondered. That must have been a recent development. He was certain he would have heard something about that, even in his isolated bubble of a Catholic orphanage in southern California. "What does this have to do with me, Jake?" Father O'Reilly asked. Maybe it was because he preached to crowds which included unruly boys, but his voice really projected.

"…training soldiers…military schools…how many…ten and eighteen?" Sam had no idea what to make of those words, but had a sinking feeling that it involved him somehow.

"Between ten and eighteen? I don't have an exact number, but I would guess seventy to a hundred," Father O'Reilly asked. _Boys between ten and eighteen?_ Sam wondered. If so, it definitely included him. "I'm not sure how comfortable I am with sending ten-year-olds to be trained as soldiers."

"It's not training as soldiers." As the stranger got more excited, his voice escalated. "It is school based on military principles of honor, duty, and service. Following graduation, they would be encouraged to join the branches of the United States military, but not required to do so. Many of our graduates have been accepted to top-notch colleges and universities. Some go on to the military academies, and the rest chose to enlist in the military and continue their education at a later time."

"I understand that, Jake," O'Reilly replied with a sigh. "But you have to understand, it is my responsibility to do what is best for these boys, and I'm not a hundred percent convinced that aggressive military training and encouragement to enlist in the military is what is best for a group of adolescent orphans. For most, this is the only home that any of them have known."

"We are more than able of providing a home, Conner," the stranger replied. Almost as if aware of the possibility of an eavesdropper, his voice lowered, and Sam had to strain to hear his voice again. The only other phrase he caught was "monetary donation."

"Samuel Thomas." The stern voice behind him was usually enough to make Sam's blood run cold, and this evening was no exception. "Your curfew was forty-five minutes ago, and now I catch you listening in on a private conversation."

"I'm sorry, Mother Maria," Sam managed. "I missed the curfew bell, and was on my way to the dormitory. I did not mean to eavesdrop."

The nun frowned down at him, but seemingly without her usual force. "Then I encourage you to make your way to the dormitory with haste, and I expect to you to report to Father O'Reilly for confessional first thing in the morning."

"Yes, Mother Maria," Sam replied, quickly making his exit before she realized she was supposed to smack him across the knuckles.

By the time he had changed for bed and brushed his teeth and washed his face, he was nearly an hour late for curfew. "You're gonna get paddled again, Paris," one of the other boys commented snidely as he slid under the covers of his top bunk.

"Yeah, well, you're going to be used as target practice," Sam shot back.

"Huh?"


	3. 2375

Ensign Tom Paris brought his coffee cup up to his mouth, grimacing when the tepid brew hit his lips. He set it down without swallowing. Neelix's coffee substitutes, hardly palatable when hot, were borderline lethal after they had cooled. And if anyone knew anything about lethal coffee, it was Tom Paris.

"More coffee, Tom?" Neelix asked, appearing out of nowhere, his usual bright smile on his face.

Paris shook his head, holding up his hand to stop Neelix from pouring. "Any more coffee, Neelix, and we're not even going to _need_ a warp core." Both men glanced at the stationary stars outside the viewport and sighed simultaneously. The scheduled all-stops, necessary for the engineering repairs, meant that Paris had two hours in the middle of his day to do whatever he wanted, as _Voyager_ didn't need a pilot when the ship wasn't moving. Unfortunately, they also left him with nothing to do, as both of the people he would normally spend the time with were working on said repairs. He had turned his report confirming that no Shannon O'Donnell or Shannon Janeway worked on any of the Mars missions to the captain, and actually hadn't seen her since.

"Things sure seem to slow down when we're not moving, don't they?" Neelix observed sagely.

Paris snorted at the obviousness of the comment, then realized that Neelix's words had nothing to do with the velocity of the ship. "Yeah, they really do," he replied.

"Maybe you should consider a nap," the Talaxian suggested. "You haven't looked very well rested for a few days now."

"It was one yawn last night!" Paris replied indignantly, but then sighed as he glanced at his almost-empty coffee mug, the latest of seven since that morning. "I just didn't get much sleep again last night." He wasn't going to give any more explanation than that, and Neelix was wise enough not to ask.

"So, what are you working on?" Neelix asked, sliding into a chair on the other side of the table. "A new holoprogram for the crew?"

Paris chuckled. "No, not this time. Actually, this has to do with the conversation last night. I looked into the Mars missions like the captain asked, which got me interested in my own ancestors. I was trying to find information on Colonel Samuel Paris, the one who flew the orbital glider on Mars, but I can't seem to find anything outside of the Janus missions and the barebones of his personal life afterwards, and I wouldn't even have _that_ if it weren't for the fact that B'Elanna pointed out that the physician of the Janus missions was his wife."

"Well, this stuff can be tricky," Neelix pointed out. "Maybe you should talk to Seven. I gave her a few pointers, and now she seems to really know her way around these old databases."

Paris fixed the shorter man with a cold look. "Neelix, if I get caught talking to Seven, I might as well resign myself to going home alone for the rest of this journey."

"Ah," Neelix replied knowing. "Things still a little chilly between Seven and B'Elanna?"

"'Arctic' would be a better way to describe it," Paris replied dryly. "The Borg apparently didn't assimilate the one piece of knowledge that every Alpha Quadrant resident knows—you do _not_ want to embarrass Klingons."

"I'm sure things will blow over soon enough," Neelix replied in what would best be described as his 'comforting' voice as he got up from the table. "Ah, B'Elanna, Harry! Are things going well in Engineering?"

Paris turned toward the doors in surprise; he had expected that both would be working through the all-stop. "Just peachy," Kim said dryly, avoiding any further conversation by grabbing a tray and making his way to Paris's table. Torres didn't even grant Neelix that much as she headed toward the replicators.

"Hey," Paris said softly as Torres took the seat next to him. "Things going okay?"

"As well as could expected," she replied, stabbing at her food angrily before sighing in defeat. "This damned warp core is going to burn itself out before we get the opportunity to finish these repairs." She gave her food another try, successfully spearing a piece of chicken. "The engines are powering back up now. We should be ready to move again in another fifteen minutes or so."

"And then it will be time for me to go back on-duty," Paris replied with an ironic smile.

"Yeah," was all she said in reply. The trio sat in silence for a few minutes, Kim and Torres studying their food as if their trays contained the answers to the warp problems, Paris still studying the results of his latest search.

"Find anything new on Colonel Paris?" Torres asked a few minutes later, breaking the silence.

"Not much," he admitted with a sigh. "I still can't find anything from his earlier life, but I haven't been looking too hard. I did find some things on Dr. Anika Paris and their children, though."

"Oh?" she asked, leaning over to glance at his PADD.

"It's not much," he warned. "If it weren't for the fact that Anika Savage Paris married Colonel Paris, she probably would have completely faded out of the records altogether. She was a neurologist in the United States Army and was also trained as a flight surgeon, took the job as the Janus mission physician when Colonel Paris was selected as the commanding officer. Her mother was apparently also an Army physician and flight surgeon. _She_ died during the war and was honored for that. Colonel and Dr. Paris had two sons and a daughter, Conner, Eugene, and Kristina. There doesn't seem to be much on any of them."

"Which one do you ascend from?" Ensign Kim asked from the other side of the table.

Paris fixed him with a look. "Which do you think?" he asked dryly, earning him a grin in reply. Both Torres and Kim knew how little Paris liked his middle name.

 _*Ensign Paris, please report to the Bridge,*_ Commander Chakotay's voice interrupted.

"Guess it's time to get back to work," Paris said with a sigh. Turning toward the chief engineer, he asked, "Am I going to see you tonight?"

Grimacing slightly, she replied, "That depends on how much progress I'm able to make with the warp core. I'll let you know."

He nodded in reply, recycled his tray, and headed back for the bridge.


	4. 2029

Jason Nickell glanced at the schedule for the basketball team and sighed deeply. As athletic director for the Augustine Military School for Boys, scheduling was perhaps the most frustrating of his responsibilities. When he made up the basketball schedule the spring before, he had had a winning team. Unfortunately, of his five starters, three graduated and one left early to enlist at seventeen, leaving him with one returning starter and a fairly poor team overall.

With another sigh, he checked the rosters of the junior varsity and freshman teams from the year before, trying to put names to faces and figure out which of those players, if any, had the potential to help Augustine to another winning season. Obviously, the coaches had the final say on such things, but it made him feel better to be informed.

He leaned back in his chair, tossing the miniature basketball he kept at his desk into the air absently. The loud clanging of the old-fashioned metal bell interrupted his thoughts, as did the sudden throngs of adolescent boys in their pressed uniforms and shined boots as they made their way past his open office door.

"Paris!" he called out, lobbing the soft ball into the hallway. Despite the little warning, the young freshman caught the ball easily, regarding it with raised eyebrows.

"Come on in here for a moment," Nickell said, gesturing into the office. Sam Paris did so, standing at attention just inside the office door, the orange ball in his left hand. "I'll take that off your hands," the athletic director said, nodding toward the ball.

"Thank you, sir," Paris replied, tossing the ball underhanded to its owner.

"You have quick reflexes and good peripheral vision," Nickell commented. "And you're decently tall for a boy your age. Have you thought about trying out for the varsity basketball team?"

"I had considered it, sir," Paris replied, still standing stiffly at attention, his blue eyes fixed on the window just over Nickell's head.

"I think you should," Nickell declared. He paused for a second, studying the fourteen-year-old in front of him. Paris had been a lead forward on the freshman soccer team, not a spectacular player, but fairly good for his grade. He had done well on the middle school level basketball teams as well. He was tall for a fourteen-year-old, but with the gangliness that came with a recent growth spurt he hadn't grown accustomed to yet. His coaches and professors had also said that he was a bright kid, reading often and absorbing everything he read. Although Nickell didn't know his background, he was sure that the dark-haired boy in front of him was one of the several orphans who had begun moving into the dormitories on campus a few years ago, when the war began; he was too serious and reserved to be one of the 'troubled youth' that Augustine and other military high schools seemed to attract, their parents at their wits end and eager to try anything to get their boys the discipline that they so dearly needed, as if a few years of standing at attention and shining boots could make up for a lifetime of poor parenting. "Very well, Paris. You're dismissed."

Although already at attention, Paris straightened further. "Sir, yes, sir!" he exclaimed, turning sharply on his heel, double-timing it to get to his next class on time.

"Good game tonight, Paris," Coach Roger Yatiski commented as he watched his youngest varsity basketball player grab a water bottle from the cooler.

"Thanks, Coach," Sam replied, taking a swig from the bottle. He glanced up at the scoreboard and gave himself a slight grin; eight-nine to fifty-six. A good game, indeed.

"Your parents going to come to the championship game in a few weeks?" Yatiski asked absently as he pulled his phone out from his pocket and thumbed through the display of voice messages.

"Don't have any, sir," Paris replied with a quick smirk. Being an orphan didn't bother him much; he hadn't had parents for any of his fourteen years, and didn't know any different. "And I doubt my social worker is going to make the time to stop by. I've seen her once in the last three years."

"I'm sorry," Yatiski said softly. "I didn't know."

Paris shrugged. "No problem. It's not as if it hurts my feelings. Hey, do we have morning practice tomorrow?"

His coach shook his head, amazed at how quickly Paris had moved on from the fact that his parents were either dead or disinterested in being parents. "No, not tomorrow. Get some rest, go to classes. We'll have afternoon practice same as always."

"Okay, Coach. I'll see you tomorrow, then." Paris flashed him a quick grin and joined his teammates in heading for the locker room.

Later that night, as he skimmed the news for a current events story for Civics class, he caught the list of casualties from the war. Every day, the _New York Times_ printed the list of the dead from the day before. He was about to move on when he spotted a familiar name. He leaned closer to his computer screen, squinting, as if that would make it any clearer, or maybe make it go away altogether, but it was still there, near the middle of the list. "Martinez, PFC Angel, US Army."

He frowned at the name again before printing the list. After the printer had released the single sheet, he scanned it again, searching for other familiar names, but that was the only one he recognized. He highlighted the name, then opened his desk drawer, where a stack of similar papers rested. Some pages had one highlighted name, others two, one or two had three names now in yellow. Each yellow mark represented someone Paris knew, either from the orphanage where he spent his first eleven years or from the groups of Augustine boys who hung out together on parent's weekend or during school holidays, when the students who had parents went home. Three years, thirty-seven yellow marks. Thirty-seven orphans Paris was acquainted with killed in war. He couldn't help but wonder how many of the other names belonged to orphans he _didn't_ know, how many sets of dog tags were tossed aside because there were no parents to give them to. Somehow, it seemed like there were more than there should have been.


	5. 2375

Lt. B'Elanna Torres rubbed her eyes warily as she reached for the mug of raktajino she replicated earlier. She stared at the liquid for a moment, debating whether she wanted the caffeine or if it was time to call it a day.

Her internal musings were interrupted a moment later by the chiming of her office door. "Come in," she called out, replacing the mug without taking a sip.

"Hey, Chief," Lt. Joe Carey said cheerfully. He frowned slightly when he saw the brief glower on his boss's face, and glanced down at the PADD in his hand, reconsidering. "You know, it's been a long day. Maybe you should think about getting some sleep."

She glared at him, but had to admit that it lacked its usual force. "I'm fine," she snapped, then sighed, closing her eyes briefly. "I'm sorry. I guess I am a little bit on edge, but I really am fine. Harry and I took a long lunch after the all-stop. We even got to see Tom briefly before he was called back up to the bridge." She sighed again, this time more out of frustration than anything else. There were dangers to engineers dating pilots—when one was busy, the other was usually relaxing. Lately, it seemed like their schedules never matched. "Besides, what about you? It's not midnight yet. Aren't you a bit early for gamma shift?"

The Irish engineer's ears turned slightly pink. "Actually, Sue and I are splitting twelves until the modifications are complete. I have the 2000 to 0800 shift."

"Keeping an eye on the chief?" Torres remarked evenly, watching her second-in-command out of the corner of her eye. She held her hand out for the results of the diagnostic that she asked him to run the night before. His face reddened further, but he didn't confirm or deny her suspicions as he handed over the PADD.

"Is that the recalibration of the buffers you've been working on?" he asked, hoping to change the subject as he nodded toward Torres' computer console.

"Actually, no," Torres admitted. She rolled her eyes slightly. "It seems like the entire senior staff is suddenly obsessed with ancestors and finding out as much as they can about them."

"So you're looking up one of your ancestors?"

"Hardly," she replied dryly. "It's one of Tom's. He mentioned that one of his ancestors was the first to fly an orbital glider over the Martian plateau and wanted to learn more about him, but couldn't find very much information. I wanted to see if I could find anything, but I keep getting the same results." She eyed the other engineer for a second. "You don't happen to know anything about Earth's Third World War, do you?"

Carey chuckled slightly. "My knowledge of history is somewhat patchy. It's too bad Anne isn't here. She did her doctoral thesis on war orphans of that war."

"Really?" Torres asked, brightening. She was so distracted by this piece of news that she forgot to ask how Anne and the Carey boys were doing, which she usually did on the rare occasions that Carey brought them up. "Did you happen to pick any of that up?"

"Some of it," Carey replied with a bit of a chuckle. "We had just started dating then, so everything she said was completely fascinating to me still. Why?"

"Well, one of the things that came up on a broad search was a scholarship that Colonel Sam Paris set up for war orphans after the war was over. The speech he made that day mentioned that he had been one. An orphan, that is."

"During World War III?" Carey asked, his eyes wide.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well," he began, taking a seat in the one chair in the Chief Engineer's office not covered with PADDs or machine parts in need of repairs. "From what I remember from Anne's thesis, life was pretty rough for orphans. It was pretty rough for everyone, actually. A dark time in Earth's history altogether, with over six hundred million deaths. What do you know about the war?"

"Not much," Torres admitted. "Federation history was a required course at my secondary school, but Earth history wasn't, and I didn't last long enough at the Academy to get into anything but the most basic of the history courses, not as if I would have anyway. Some of Tom's history things seemed to have rubbed off on me over the years, but this would be a number of decades outside the time frame he's interested in."

"Well, I seem to recall it started as an eco-terrorism thing, which is fairly ironic, considering that in the end, thirty years of nuclear warfare made Earth barely hospitable," Carey said with a frown. "But the head of the terrorist group - I can't remember his name - was also preaching purification of the race, purging everyone with any impurities or illness."

"Sounds like an upstanding citizen," Torres said dryly. She felt a surge of anger toward the man, although long dead, who would have called for her execution simply on the grounds that she were not fully human.

"With a large, equally upstanding following," Carey agreed, just as dryly. "Going hand-in-hand with the purity ideas, eugenics was a growing theme at the time, both in the lab and in terms of 'natural selection'. In some parts of the world, people were or were not allowed to procreate based on qualities such as intelligence or athletic ability, and people with more 'qualities' were granted permission to have more children than less qualified individuals. Arranged marriages in such areas were the rule rather than the exception."

"Kahless," Torres murmured, taking a sip of her raktajino. "And people think Klingons are cruel."

"That's not the half of it," Carey continued. "With how quickly the population, especially the soldiers, were being killed off, replacement forces were needed often. At first, this meant conscription. Many members of the armed forces on all sides were controlled with narcotics to keep them cooperative. Later, some governments forced procreation for the purpose of training the children as soldiers. Others resorted to rape for the same goal. These, as well as the children whose parents were killed by the conflict, were the war orphans. From what Anne found, they were property of the governments they were trained by." He frowned, thinking. "Do you happen to know which government this ancestor fought for?"

"He was a colonel in the United States Air Force."

"Hmm," Carey said, thinking. "Maybe this guy was an exception to the rule, or maybe the United States was nicer on their orphans than others, because I was under the impression that, for the most part, they weren't allowed to have any sort of activities or interests outside of the war, including marriage and children. As I said, they were property, little more than trained fighting machines. People with families tend to not take as many risks." He gave a sad smile, which Torres knew meant that he was thinking about his own wife and sons.

Torres glanced at her console with a frown on her face, thinking about the life of the man whose words were displayed there, as well as the life of another man, probably now asleep on a starship thousands of light-years away from the grave of the first. Was it possible that they owed their existence to a lab experiment or an arranged marriage for the purpose of producing children to fight a very adult war? Was Tom's childhood idol really the driven, hard-working, goal-oriented person he thought he was, or was he the product of a strict military upbringing and even more strict control through narcotics? "Thanks, Joe," she said softly before getting back to business. "Is there anything that can't wait on these diagnostic results?"

He shook his head as he stood, aware that the meeting was coming to a close. "Nothing at all."

She nodded slightly. "I'm going to go get some sleep. Don't hesitate to get a hold of me if anything comes up."

"Aye, Chief," Carey replied, leaving the office to get back to his work, both of them knowing that he wouldn't disturb her sleep for anything less than a core breach.

Torres sighed again as she took one last look at the display before deactivating her console, suddenly drained. She barely acknowledged the murmured "goodnights" from her staff as she headed out of Engineering toward the nearest turbolift. "Deck four," she ordered, leaning against the back of the lift and willing it to go faster.

She didn't bother with the announcer chime on the door, not willing to wake Tom if he were sleeping. She didn't know if it was this latest obsession with his genealogy or increased stress with his duties, but he had seemed more tired than usual lately. Standing just inside the door to his darkened quarters, she briefly wondered if she should go back to her own quarters to keep from disturbing him, but dismissed that thought. He had told her that he liked it when she was there, and she had been initially surprised to discover that she felt the same way.

She quickly changed out of her uniform into the tank top and shorts she kept in his quarters for pajamas and slid into bed. "What time is it?" she heard Paris murmur.

"A little after zero hundred," she replied, curling up next to his warm body.

"Long day," he commented. She didn't say anything, thinking about her conversation with Carey as she debated relaying it to him.

 _Not tonight_ , she ultimately decided. Instead, she said quietly, "I love you." He pulled her closer in reply. A minute later, both were asleep.


	6. 2033

Sam Paris stood at the free throw line of the empty gym, a full cart of basketballs next to him and several others strewn around the court. Reaching for another ball from the cart, he dribbled it a few times before sending it toward the basket; the whoosh of the ball through the net was the only sound he heard.

"Not bad," he heard a voice say from the side door to the gym. Spinning in surprise, he blinked a few times, not quite believing what he was seeing.

"Father O'Reilly," he finally said. "This is unexpected."

"I didn't mean to disturb you," the Catholic priest replied. "Your principal said you would probably be here."

Sam shrugged a shoulder. "Free throws are the weakest part of my game. If I expect to make the varsity squad at the Air Force Academy next year, I need to tighten up those skills." He grabbed another ball and studied it for a second before glancing at the priest again. "Is there any particular reason you came by, Father?"

"I wanted to offer my congratulations," Father O'Reilly replied, taking his own ball from the cart. It hit the backboard before going wide. He gave a self-conscious smile and shrug. "Obviously not to challenge you to a shoot-out. I heard about your acceptance."

"Thank you," Paris replied politely, now studying the priest with a quizzical look on his face. "That didn't require a trip to Nevada, did it?"

"No, Sam," O'Reilly replied kindly. He paused for a second. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

Paris frowned slightly, but then nodded. "Sure. Just let me get these balls back to where they belong."

The two silently worked side-by-side, collecting the balls and depositing them in the cart. After Paris returned them to the storage locker, he gestured the Father toward the door. They walked in silence for a few moments before Sam spoke again. "I'm sorry if I'm being repetitive, but why did you come?"

It took several more seconds before Father O'Reilly answered. "You're leaving for Colorado in two weeks, and you'll be turning eighteen three weeks after that. I promised your mother that I would give you something when you turned eighteen. I don't think she'd mind that I'm a bit early."

"My mother?" Paris asked with a frown. He knew on an intellectual level that he had one, but it had been years since he put any thought into figuring out who she was or anything about her.

"She stayed at the convent for a few months before you were born," Father O'Reilly informed him. He paused again, then continued. "She was seventeen, ran away from home, wouldn't even tell us where home was until she had been with us for over a month. She was from a small community in Oregon and said she had to leave before anyone found out she was pregnant. I was under the impression that her parents were followers of Colonel Green. She never said anything about your father, would clam up every time anyone tried to ask."

"What was her name?" Sam asked softly.

Father O'Reilly shook his head. "She never told us. She said we could call her 'Sarah', but that wasn't her name. She was very bright, but very scared, and didn't want to leave any sort of trail, afraid that someone would find her. She was always reading and didn't care what she was reading. She said once that she wanted to see the world, but until she made her way down to our convent, she had never left her hometown in Oregon. That was why she asked us to give you the name Paris. She said it wasn't her last name or your father's, but it was somewhere she always wanted to go. She said it seemed magical and that you should have some magic in your life."

"Some magic," Paris muttered darkly.

"She wanted what was best for you," O'Reilly said gently, "and she knew that growing up on Colonel Green's compound wasn't it. She wanted you to have the opportunities she didn't have." He smiled slightly. "She wanted you to fly, and now you're going to."

"What's best for me?" Paris asked, his anger rising. "Do you think that included military school? Do you know what happens to orphans in military school, Father? Of course you don't. If you did, I would hope you wouldn't have been so eager to send orphans away in exchange for money for the church."

O'Reilly looked confused. "In exchange for money? I never accepted money for sending you boys to Augustine; you can't believe that I would."

"Don't tell me that," Paris snorted. "I heard you in your office that night with Jake Goddard. He said he needed boys to train as soldiers to fight Colonel Green's terrorist armies, said he'll give a monetary donation to the church. The next thing I knew, I was packing my stuff and getting on a bus leading to Nevada."

"I didn't accept any donation, Sam. I told him that I wasn't in the business of selling people, that if he wanted to give, he could donate to any charity of his choice, as long as it wasn't ours." He stopped walking, staring Sam Paris directly in the eye. "I chose for you boys to go to Augustine because it's a good school, with excellent academics and sports teams, leading to the type of future we couldn't give you at our orphanage. I didn't do it for any amount of money. I would never do that."

Paris snorted derisively and looked away. "Whatever your reasons, Father, did you ever think about what would happen to 'us boys' after we left your care?" He locked eyes with the priest, his bright blue eyes boring into the Father's green ones. "I've been checking the casualty lists every day since I arrived at Augustine, Father. I've recognized 168 names in six years, all from the convent or from the orphans here at Augustine. That seems like quite a few, if you ask me. I don't really know all that many people. What is it, Father? Is it that the men I know are just clumsier and more likely to die in war, or is it that people without parents are given the more dangerous jobs, the ones most likely to result in injury or death? I'm the fourth orphan in the six years I've been here to be accepted to a military academy. The rest have enlisted either at seventeen or immediately after graduation. No one has gone to a civilian university. Why is that, Father?"

Father Conner O'Reilly blanched. "I didn't know, Sam. I swear I didn't know."

"That, Father, is exactly what the people who lived in the villages outside Bergen Belsen and Dachau and Auschwitz said ninety years ago." He turned on his heel and walked away swiftly, not looking back.


	7. 2375

Ensign Tom Paris glanced at the closed door of the captain's ready room and sighed. For the second day in a row, she locked herself inside, probably still doing more research on Shannon O'Donnell Janeway. He felt a pang of guilt, realizing that her view of the ancestor who had inspired her so much had begun to change after he told her that she never worked on any of the Mars missions.

 _She wouldn't have wanted you to lie to her,_ a voice inside his head pointed out.

 _You didn't have to say anything at all,_ another countered. He sighed again.

"Something wrong, Tom?" Chakotay asked from the captain's chair in the middle of the bridge.

"Just thinking, Commander," Paris replied with his usual sarcastic mirth.

"It always hurts when he tries to do that," Kim added from his Ops station at the back.

Paris turned around and stared at his friend with wide-eyed innocence. "You look pretty relaxed back there, Harry. I could always tell B'Elanna that you're looking for something to do."

"I'm busy enough," Kim replied indignantly, standing from his chair in order to look like he was actually doing something. Paris chuckled as he turned back around to face the helm controls.

 _*Torres to the bridge,*_ the comm system chirped.

"Speak of the devil," Chakotay murmured with a smile. "Chakotay here. What do you need?"

_*We're having problems recalibrating the helm controls after our last diagnostic. Can you spare Ensign Paris for a few hours?*_

Kim snorted out a laugh as Paris grinned sheepishly, admitting defeat. "I'm sure that can be arranged," Chakotay replied with barely contained mirth. "Chakotay out."

"Have fun," Kim called out as Paris stepped by his station on the way to the turbolift.

"I'll send my regards," Paris said dryly.

Engineering was, as it almost always is, bustling with activity, and it took Paris a moment to find Torres, hidden in the corner workstation. "Ensign Paris, reporting as ordered, ma'am!" he said cheekily. She merely looked over at him and rolled her eyes.

"You're an idiot," she said dryly, a slight smile tugging at her lips.

"Yes, ma'am," Paris replied with a grin. "And what would the lieutenant like the ensign to do?" The jokes about rank had started almost immediately after he was released from the brig following his demotion, to let each other know that they were okay with what happened.

Torres raised her eyebrows at the double entendre, and Lt. Susan Nicoletti, standing at a nearby workstation, cleared her throat loudly to remind them that they weren't alone. Paris shot a grin her way, then turned his attention back to the half-Klingon in front of him.

"Auxillary nav controls at the upper workstation," Torres replied, pointing up. This time, it was Paris's turn to raise his eyebrows, remembering another time the two of them had the upper workstation to themselves. Knowing what he was thinking, Torres was quick to add, "Hudson's been working on the deflector controls for the past few hours."

"Oh, good," Paris said, mocking relief as they headed toward the Engineering lift. "A chaperone." Torres only rolled her eyes in reply.

Fully expecting her to leave him at the auxiliary navigation controls to go back to her warp core modifications, Paris was surprised when Torres positioned herself at the console next to his and opened the navigation program. Recalibration was a two person job, but not one that usually required the attention of the chief engineer. Paris had expected Hudson to be the one assisting him.

For awhile, they were as professional as two seniors officers were expected to be. Ever since the dressing down they had received early in their relationship about keeping their private lives private and setting a good example while on-duty, they never again crossed that line. Working side-by-side at the upper engineering work station, they spoke little, exchanging only a few words at a time, when it was necessary in their work.

Torres was the first to break the pattern. "Why did you become a pilot?" she asked casually, her tone as evenly matched as before that it took a few seconds for Paris to register that her words had nothing to do with the navigation recalibration.

"I don't know," he finally replied with a shrug, his eyes not moving from his work. "I guess because I was good at it."

There was nothing boastful about his words; he _was_ a good pilot, and had been since childhood. "But how did you start flying? I mean, there had to have been something to make you get behind the controls for the first time, before you knew you were good at it."

"It wasn't any burning desire of mine, if that's what you mean," Paris said, his attention still mostly focused on his work. "It was actually one of those accidental things. Dad was on leave from the _Al-Batani_ but had to go into the simulators at the Academy for his pilot recertification. Mom was at work, so I had to go with him. He noticed that I was interested in the controls and what he was doing, so after he completed the recertification, he showed me some of the basics and let me fly a simple simulation, little more than flying in a straight line. I think I was three or four at the time." He shot her one of his quick grins. "Why the sudden interest?"

She shrugged. "I was just curious. With all of the attention you were giving this search for more information on Colonel Samuel Paris, I was wondering if he was the reason you decided to become a pilot."

Paris chuckled. "No, not at all. I was nine or ten when my father told me about Colonel Paris. I was already competing at that point." He paused slightly. "It was a completely different situation than Captain Janeway and her ancestor, this Shannon O'Donnell. She said that she was her inspiration for going into Starfleet and becoming an explorer. I think that's why she's taking it so hard now that she's finding out that O'Donnell isn't who she thought she was. The death of a childhood hero and all that."

Torres nodded slightly, her gaze still fixed on the controls in front of her. "So if your research proved that this Colonel Paris wasn't the man you thought he was, you wouldn't be devastated?"

"Why? Did you find something interesting?" he asked, mostly in jest. Before she had the opportunity to reply, he shook his head. "What I admired Colonel Paris for, for being the first to fly an orbital glider across the Martian plateau, has nothing to do with who he was as a person or how he got there. Just because he was a talented pilot doesn't mean that he was perfect in every other aspect of his life." He paused, growing thoughtful. "Just look at my father," he said quietly. "A gifted scientist, respected captain and admiral, but didn't realize that his children weren't Academy cadets. Well, before we were Academy cadets, that is." He shrugged a shoulder, turning his full attention back to the navigation array. "The relay at B14 should be bypassed by J4 and J9." They finished their work as they had started it, in the relative silence broken only when work necessitated it.


	8. 2038

Second Lieutenant Samuel Thomas Paris rubbed his eyes warily, then returned his attention to the textbook open on his desk. A few minutes later, he groaned loudly, allowing his head to fall to the desk. "There is no way I'm going to get this EP memorized by tomorrow," he muttered to himself. Emergency Procedures were probably his weakest part of Pilot Training thus far, and he was sure his flight commander knew it. Four weeks into Phase 2 of the training program, and he had already been grounded three times for wrong answers on EPs. Many more of these, and he'd find himself held back for the next class.

He was about to close the book and turn in for the night, knowing that he had to be awake for PT by 0500 the next morning, when he heard the now-familiar _thump_ of a ball hitting the adjoining wall of the unaccompanied officer dormitories at Sheppard Air Force Base. He rolled his eyes slightly, then got up from his chair and left the room.

"It's open," the familiar voice called out through the door in response to his knock. He entered the room, an exact mirror image of his own, and felt a grin begin to spread across his face.

"Don't even say it," 2LT Maggie Johnson said in a warning tone.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Paris lied, his grin betraying him. Ever since the beginning of Phase 2, he could count on entering his next-door neighbor's room and seeing the exact same thing: the petite blond leaning back on the rear two legs of her chair, a small black and gold ball in her hands, a paper diagram of the cockpit of the training craft above her desk, and the television on to some news channel.

"Whatever," Johnson replied, resuming the usual semi-absentminded toss and catch of the ball with the wall as she studied the diagram intently.

"Actually, Caboose, I had a question for you," Paris replied, taking a seat on her bed, the only other seat available in the room.

"I _hate_ that name," Johnson replied vehemently. Paris knew he was the only one she would admit that to; complaining about call signs usually resulted in earning a worse one. "Everyone knows I only have that name because I'm at the very bottom of the racks and stacks for flight skills."

"Or it could have something to do with your intense and active pride in your undergrad institution," Paris replied dryly. Johnson had posters, banners, stuffed animals, and various other memorabilia from Purdue University all over her room. "'Boilermaker' was just too long to use as a call sign."

"Whatever, Genie. They could have shortened it to 'Boiler', you know," Johnson replied. "What did you need, anyway?"

"Have you done the EP reading for tomorrow?" Stupid question. Johnson may be trailing the class in flight skills, but had a commanding lead on the academic portion.

"Yeah. What about it?"

"You want to explain it to me?"

She rolled her eyes and lobbed the Purdue ball at him, but four years of varsity basketball at the United States Air Force Academy didn't disappoint him, and he caught it easily. "The last thing I need is to be bumping you up on racks and stacks."

"C'mon, Caboose. Whatever happened to teamwork? I'll help you memorize the cockpit specs."

"I think I have them memorized already," she replied with a heavy sigh. "The problem is knowing what to do with that information when I get _in_ the cockpit."

He opened his mouth to reply, but the sudden appearance of a familiar face on the television distracted him. With a frown, he leaned forward and turned up the volume. "What is it?" Johnson asked, leaning back further in her chair before righting herself after almost tipping over backwards.

"Shh," Paris hissed.

The words across the bottom of the screen read "Father Conner O'Reilly speaking out against House bill on foster care reform." The priest looked slightly uncomfortable with being surrounded by cameras and microphones, but his speech was unaffected, as even and passionate Paris as remembered him performing Mass.

"This bill is not about foster care reform," O'Reilly was saying. "It's about military training reform. They want to boost the number of kids in military education, and ultimately the number of young men and women in the armed services, by transferring the care of these children from orphanages and foster homes and into military schools as young as the age of three. But this goes beyond education, beyond enlistment or commission into the ranks of the military. Five years ago, I offered my congratulations on admission to the United States Air Force Academy to a former pupil, an orphan since birth, who lived at St. Francis Home for Orphaned Boys until he left for Augustine Military School at the age of eleven, when this war began. Since his arrival at Augustine, he closely followed the casualty lists. By the time he was seventeen, he personally knew 168 orphaned young men who died in service to this country. Former residents of orphanages, group homes, and foster homes make up forty-two percent of all United States military casualties—a rather astonishing number when one considers that they make up seven percent of the US military." He paused for a second, letting the numbers make their impact. "I ask of you—I _beg_ of all of you—to ask why this is, to wonder why so many young men and women without parents are dying in battle, and to question what we're doing to them." He paused again, his eyes sweeping the crowd. When he started speaking again, his voice was lower, more penetrating. "There are almost 250,000 boys and girls under the age of sixteen in foster care or otherwise waiting for adoption who would be affected by this bill. That is a _quarter of a million_ young lives in the care of the state. As citizens of this country, it is _our_ responsibility to look after them, the same as parents look after their own children. As parents to these children, we have to ask, is this the future we want for our children?" He paused slightly, then added softly: "Is this a future at all?"

The camera switched from Father O'Reilly to their correspondent on the scene, and Paris lowered the volume to its previously barely-audible level. "What is this bill they're talking about?" he managed, turning to Johnson. "Do you have any idea?"

She nodded slightly, her dark eyes round and serious. "I just heard about it the other day. They're calling it foster care reform, but it's practically doing away with the foster system altogether. Instead of foster care and group homes, children would be sent to military schools beginning in pre-school. They're citing a lack of good foster homes and a system that doesn't 'do right by the children', whatever that's supposed to mean." She gave a slight shrug. "I won't argue with the fact that the foster care system needs reform, but I'm not sure this is the best idea. Unfortunately, I can't think of anything better."

Paris snorted and rolled his eyes, feeling the surge of annoyance. "It's easy to stand on the outside and cry about how broken the system is, but they're just using that as an excuse. They're taking steps to government ownership of orphans. _That's_ what this bill is about."

Johnson's eyes flashed angrily. "Standing on the outside, Paris? You think that's what I'm doing? Let me tell you something about how far away from the outside I am—my parents died when I was two. I have no grandparents and no aunts or uncles, so into the foster care system I went. There were good foster homes and bad ones, decent group homes and some so far away from decent it's almost criminal. When the Grand Coulee Dam was taken out a few months after I turned twelve, I was offered a scholarship to attend Randolph-Macon Academy, spent five years there standing at attention, went through AFJROTC, played soccer and ran cross-country, and learned how to fly, all before graduating from high school. That was a damn sight better than I could have gotten being bounced around from place to place in the Virginia foster care system." She snorted and rolled her eyes at him. "The foster care system has got to be the least stable thing in the world for these kids, and this bill could change that, give these kids the stability and education that they need to make it for themselves in the world. What would you know about it, anyway? Or are you just reciting your parents' liberal views on how the world is without doing anything to make it any better?"

Johnson's words stunned Paris. "You're an orphan?" he managed.

"What, now are you going to lay on the false pity and everything?" she shot back vehemently.

Her words caused him to chuckle. "No, not at all," he assured. "I just never would have thought—I mean, you went to Purdue, and—ah, hell." He looked aside, giving a self-conscious chuckle. "The former pupil that Father O'Reilly talked about? That was me. I lived in his orphanage until the whole lot of ten to seventeen year old boys was sent to Augustine before I turned twelve." He turned back to see her eyes now wide in surprise. "Things at Augustine were different than at Randolph-Macon, maybe because it was an all-boys school or because we had such a huge proportion of orphans. Orphans didn't go to civilian universities, not even on ROTC scholarships, and only very few of us went on to the Academies. Almost all of the orphans enlisted, some after graduation and some after getting their GED after they turned seventeen, and you just heard what happens to them." He shrugged a shoulder. "I guess I just assumed that it was the same for orphans everywhere."

Johnson shook her head. "It isn't. Nobody cared that I didn't have parents at Randolph-Macon _or_ at Purdue. In fact, seventh grade, starting at R-MA, was the first time I _didn't_ feel out of place. Before that, I don't know how, it always seemed like everyone knew that you were a foster kid, and the kids who want to be friends with foster kids are few and far between—and most are fairly weird, themselves. I would have loved to have felt like I belonged when I was growing up."

Now it was Paris's turn to shake his head. "Just because you're around other people in the same situation doesn't mean you belong. There are bigger divisions between kids than who has parents and who doesn't." He sighed and stood, pacing in the small room. Johnson, having seen Paris's restlessness before, wasn't bothered by this and simply sat and listened. "I won't deny that this proposal would bring kids like you, those in the foster system, a sense of belonging, being surrounded by people in the same boat, but that's not what this is about, not if you look beyond the surface. Just think about how long our obligations to the Air Force are—JROTC, ROTC or the Academy. I owe six years for JROTC, another five for the Academy. Eleven years of service to the Air Force, minimum. If kids start military training when they're three, they'll owe more than fifteen years of active duty service—and that's if they enlist, it doesn't count ROTC or Academy years. The government would literally _own_ them until they're in their thirties."

"It's not _ownership_ , Genie," Johnson remarked with a roll of her eyes. "Yes, it's an obligation for service, a contract, but that only extends as far where you work and what you do while there. People will still be free to have their own interests and activities, get married, have kids, that whole bit."

"Assuming they're not killed in combat first," Paris agreed.

"You're starting to sound paranoid," she said with a frown. "I won't argue that a higher proportion of orphans die in combat, but you don't know the circumstances. Maybe more orphans volunteer for those missions because they don't have anyone back home waiting for them. It's not as if the government is purposely killing them. That would be stupid, to put so much time, effort, and money into training people to murder them."

He opened his mouth to respond, but the ringing of her phone interrupted him. He glanced at his watch and gave a slight smile. "Twenty-one hundred. Must be Matt."

"You should have been a psychic," Johnson confirmed with a smile. She hit the answer button on her phone and brought it up to her ear. "Hey, Love."

Paris rolled his eyes at the greeting, the same one she gave her fiancée every night when he called at the same time. He never knew if she was being sentimental or if it was the military training at work; or maybe she just continued to find the joke funny after all that time. He gestured toward the door. She nodded and mouthed "goodnight" to him.

"'Night," Paris whispered in reply. "Better hurry up and marry that future doctor of yours before the Air Force tells you that you can't."

She rolled her eyes at him. "What was that, Matt? Oh, no, that was just Genie. He's just being paranoid, thinks the government is trying to turn all people without parents into military slaves…no, he was just leaving; we have an early PT tomorrow morning." She made a face at Paris and waved him out of the room. Barely suppressing a chuckle, he made his way back to his quarters to see if he could figure out that EP before morning.


	9. 2038

"Racks and stacks today," First Lieutenant James "Monkey" Monk said with a grin as his tray fell the few centimeters to the table in the dining facility, properly planned to cause enough noise to get attention without spilling any food. "You ready for this, Caboose? I hear there are always places for turboprop pilots."

"Say whatever you want, Monkey," 2nd Lt Maggie Johnson replied with a shrug. "There is nothing that can get me down today. Matt's coming in, so I'm not really paying attention to anything that happens until then."

"What time is Dr. Love planning on arriving?" Monk asked, aggressively digging into the bowl of oatmeal.

"Sixteen hundred. And it's 2LT Love for another year and a half. And I wouldn't mind turboprops, anyway."

"I just wish they would do this the old-fashioned way," 2nd Lt Sam Paris commented. At Monk and Johnson's confused expressions, he explained, "They used to go through the class in racks and stacks, and after your name was called, you got to pick your track. There were a set number of positions available in each track, so if you were low enough in the list, you didn't have as many choices." He shrugged. "Seems more fun that way, not this turning in our preference sheets a week ago for us to wait until today for them to hand out track assignments."

"What're you going for, Genie?" 1st Lt Rachelle "Barbie" Mattel asked from the end of the table.

"I'm hoping for T-38," he admitted with a slight smile. "I've always wanted to be a fighter pilot."

"All that testosterone," Johnson said with a roll of her eyes. "I want T-1. My goal is air ambulance—important job, but doesn't require all those ridiculous aerobatics and formations. Monkey?"

"T-38 all the way," he said to no one's surprise. He had "fighter-pilot jock" written all over him from the first day. "Barbie?"

Mattel rolled her eyes at the call sign she probably wouldn't ever be able to shake, despite the fact that she was tall, stick-thin, flat-chested, and African-American—probably the female at flight school who _least_ resembled the dolls. Responding to Monk's question, she said, "UH-1."

"Helo flying?" Monk asked, bewildered. "If you wanted to fly a helo, you should have joined the Army!"

"Air Force has helos, too, you know," Mattel replied, shaking her head slightly. "And if I had joined the Army, I would have found myself disowned. There's been a member of my family in the Air Force as long as there's been an Air Force."

"'If the wings are traveling faster than the fuselage, it's probably a helicopter—and therefore unsafe,'" Paris quoted to Mattel.

"'In the ongoing battle between objects made of aluminum going hundreds of miles per hour and the ground going zero miles per hour, the ground has yet to lose,'" she shot back with a smile.

"'Helicopters can't fly; they're just so ugly the earth repels them,'" Paris returned.

"Okay, enough, you two," Johnson interjected. "We can all quote aviation jokes until we're blue in the face." She made a large show of looking at her watch. "Come on guys, we have briefing in ten minutes."

"Why they're making us brief on racks and stacks day is beyond me," Paris grumbled as the four lieutenants made their way to the exit. "I definitely would have appreciated the extra sleep."

"They want to watch you sweat out another EP," Monk joked, playfully throwing his arm around the taller man. Paris just rolled his eyes in reply.

"Rumor is, we're getting our assignments at the end of the briefing," Mattel replied to Paris, ignoring Monk's comment.

Taking their seats for the morning briefing, Johnson leaned over to Paris and said quietly, "Matt wants to dinner with the gang tonight. I would announce it to the class, but Monkey's getting on my nerves. You in?"

"Sure," he whispered back, a mischievous smile on his face. "And is Second Lieutenant Love paying for said dinner out of his big, fat, Army medical student stipend?"

Johnson snorted in reply. "You mean, the stipend that's about half our pay?"

"I thought doctors made the big bucks."

She fixed him with a look, her eyebrows raised. "I'll have to get back to you on that, sometime after he receives a medical degree." They both rose and snapped up to attention with the class as their flight commander entered the room, another day begun.

Paris didn't hear much of what happened for the first part of the briefing, and he doubted anyone else did, either. Everyone knew the track assignments were coming, their chance to find out what kind of pilot they were going to be, after thirty weeks of learning the basics during the first two phases of the year-long pilot training course. And then, finally, the moment was there, all of the students finding themselves with envelopes containing the next set of orders.

"This can't be right," Paris heard Johnson mutter next to him. His own envelope still untouched, he turned to her, a quizzical expression on his face. "I got T-38. I don't _want_ to fly fighters—it was the bottom of my preference list. Even if I were high enough in racks and stacks to get T-38—which I'm not—I should have been high enough to get my first choice, which was T-1."

Paris had a sneaking suspicion that he knew why she was on the fighter and bomber track—it was the most dangerous of the pilot tracks and in his experience, the most dangerous jobs went to those with the least to lose, the ones without anyone waiting for them at home. He kept his mouth closed, however, because he knew Johnson would just roll her eyes and tell him he was being paranoid. "What did you get?"

Finally forcing himself to open the envelope, he pulled out the sheet containing his orders and breathed a sigh of relief. "T-38. Looks like you're going to be stuck with me for another twenty-four weeks."

She smiled thinly, an expression that didn't reach her dark brown eyes. "Congratulations, Genie."

"You could always try talking to the flight commander and asking about your track assignment," Paris suggested. Trying to be positive, he added, "Your formation flying and aerobatics have really improved over the last couple of months. They wouldn't have put you on the fighter/bomber track if they didn't think you were good enough."

"It's not even about my flying," Johnson said with a frown before giving a sarcastic chuckle. "God, I should hope not. It's embarrassing enough that I've been a licensed pilot since I was sixteen and still near the bottom on flight skills. I'm just not confident enough to fly those planes. I don't have those cut-throat tendencies or lightening-fast reflexes that you and Monkey have."

"How about another one of those quotes you hate so much? 'There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots. However, there are no old, bold pilots.'" He grinned down at her. "You're going to be fine, Caboose. Remember, they've put way too much time, effort, and money into educating and training you to purposely kill you."

She rolled her eyes at her words thrown back at her. "Come on, let's find out what tracks everyone else got." She hooked her arm around his and led the way toward the group of pilots-in-training eagerly comparing track assignments and training stations.


	10. 2375

"Tom! B'Elanna! I wasn't expecting anyone else this afternoon. Most people have come and gone from lunch already," Neelix said, his usual bubbly self as the two officers entered the mess hall, directly from Engineering, where they had just finished the recalibration.

"Sorry about that, Neelix," Paris replied. "We were recalibrating the navigation systems, worked through lunch. Do you have any leftovers for us?"

The Talaxian frowned as he thought about it. "Well, we don't have any of the Terralian vegetables and rice, but I think there's still some pleeka rind casserole left over."

Paris did all he could to keep from grimacing visibly, but Torres covered for him nicely. "That's okay, Neelix. I have some rations left over, and I was planning on getting pizza for both of us."

"Are you sure?" Neelix asked, his brow furrowed in worry. "Because it wouldn't be any trouble to heat up the casserole—"

"I'm sure," Torres interrupted. She smiled slightly at Neelix before leading Paris to the replicators.

"Pepperoni pizza," she ordered.

"'Planning on getting pizza'?" Paris remarked as he carried the dish to a nearby table. "Nice recovery."

"Anything beats pleeka rind casserole."

They ate their food amidst small talk about how much longer repairs would take and whether or not either of them would be free for a holoprogram in the near future. About halfway through the meal, Neelix approached and pulled a chair up to their small table. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, sitting down before they had a chance to reply.

"Not at all," Paris replied, shooting a quick grin to Torres, who gave him a subtle eye roll before smiling over at Neelix with a nod.

"Still working hard at the warp core modifications?" Neelix asked, directing the question at Torres.

She nodded as she swallowed. "We should be done in the next few days."

"Good, good," the Talaxian replied. He frowned slightly. "I think this must be putting its toll on the captain. She's seemed rather down lately."

"I don't know how much of that is the warp core modifications," Paris remarked, also frowning. "I think she's taking this Shannon O'Donnell thing pretty hard."

"Oh, I feel terrible about that," Neelix said, sounding almost mournful. "If I hadn't brought it up, she wouldn't have gone to all that trouble of researching her ancestor, and wouldn't have found out that she's not who she thought she was."

"Ignorance isn't always bliss," Torres commented. Paris turned to her, his eyebrows raised, which earned him a shrug. "In the end, it's good to know the truth, even if it's hard to take at first."

Paris reached across the table and squeezed her hand briefly before releasing it, knowing that even that simple public display of affection would be enough to make her uncomfortable, but knowing just as well that it was necessary. She had told him, rather recently, that she had used some of the extra data sent to them from home since they established occasional contact to look up her father while they were in the void, finding out that he had remarried a few years after he left her and her mother. At the time _Voyager_ was stranded in the Delta Quadrant, he had been living on Earth with his wife and their eleven-year-old daughter. After her revelation, Paris had asked her if that contributed to her depression at all. After a few minutes of thinking about the question, she told him she didn't think so. She said she must have already been there, because she found that she hadn't cared at all when she read it.

Meanwhile, Neelix was oblivious to what the couple was saying between the words. "I just wish there was something we could do to make her feel better," he mused.

Paris thought about it as he reached for another piece of pizza. "What about that picture you found of the Janeway family in the archives? We could replicate a print of it in a frame, give her something tangible to put in her ready room or her quarters."

Neelix's spotted face brightened. "That's an excellent idea, Tom!" he bubbled. "We could give it to her in a ceremony—no, a holiday! Ancestor's Eve! How does that sound?"

"Ancestor's Eve?" Paris repeated with a slight chuckle. "Why not wait until Ancestor's Day? And when is Ancestor's Day?"

"Oh, there is no Ancestor's Day," Neelix replied, as if that were obvious. "Just the evening. And it falls on April 22nd."

Paris and Torres looked at each other quizzically before Torres spoke. "Um, Neelix? Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't _today_ April 22nd?"

Neelix nodded with enthusiasm. "You'll both be here, right?"

"Be _where_?" Torres asked, beginning to become exasperated.

"The Ancestor's Eve celebration tonight, here, in the Mess Hall, at 2000," he explained.

Torres opened her mouth to object, but a quick kick to the shin silenced her. "Sure, Neelix," Paris said smoothly. "But right now I think it's time for us to get back to work. B'Elanna?"

She glared briefly at him as Neelix offered to recycle the pizza pan for them, empty save for the crusts from Paris's slices. "'Sure, Neelix'?" she mimicked with a hiss. "There are better things I could be doing than attending a party for a holiday Neelix made up three minutes ago!"

"Better than spending time with people who care about you and are concerned for your happiness?"

She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it when nothing came to mind, her eyes narrowing. "Oh, Paris, you are going to regret that," she muttered.

Paris grinned back at her. "Looking forward to it, Torres," he said brightly, shooting her another grin before stepping into the waiting turbolift.


	11. 2038

"Hey, whatever happened to that foster care reform bill?" 1st Lt Maggie Johnson asked as 1st Lt Sam Paris entered her quarters, not even looking up from the piloting exercise on her lap, her hands in the air, holding the invisible controls for a T-38. Paris watched her for a moment, seeing the way she chewed on her lower lip as she concentrated on flying the plane wasn't there, completely oblivious to everything else going on.

"Passed a week or so ago," he finally replied, lowering himself to the floor in front of her, his own piloting exercise text still closed on his lap. "How do you feel about that?"

She glanced up briefly before her eyes fell back to the open text. "Military school was probably the best thing that could have happened to me."

"Not everyone without parents is you, Caboose."

"And not everyone is you," she returned.

"Touché," he replied with a smile. She looked up at him and returned his smile with a small one of her own. "So," he stated, changing the subject, "which exercise?"

"I'm almost finished with 7.34. You want to run through 7.35 together?"

"Sounds good," he said, getting up and helping himself to the box of Oreos she always had in her small kitchenette. He watched her from the counter, her hands still in position in the air, silently mouthing along the steps as she moved her hands as if she were flying the plane. Her body was stiff, stiffer than it should have been, a sign that she wasn't nearly as comfortable as she should have been. He sighed inwardly. In the air, her aerobatics and formation flying were definitely improving from when they started Phase 2, but he could always tell from how drained she looked when she stepped out of the cockpit how hard it had been for her and how much she had had to concentrate. She shouldn't have been a fighter pilot. He just hoped it wasn't as obvious to everyone else as it had been to him.

"Okay, I finished that one," she said with a slight frown. "I hope I didn't crash the plane. You ready?"

He returned to his cross-legged position on the floor facing her. "How about if we skip ahead to 8.4?"

She shrugged slightly as she flipped the pages in the text, then sighed loudly. "Formation flying, Genie? Seriously?"

He grinned. "At least here, you don't have to worry about crashing into anybody." She rolled her eyes, but then gestured for him to begin. He shook his head. "No way. You're leading this."

She fixed him with a withering look before sighing in resignation. "Fine," she replied, again positioning her hands on the imaginary fighter controls and waited for Paris to do the same. She began reading off the steps in the commanding monotone they had been taught in class.

They were almost halfway through the exercise when a soft beep from her computer was heard, indicating an incoming email. "Pause," she said in that same tone, hitting an imaginary button that didn't exist. Paris rolled his eyes.

"Distractions are a part of fighter flying, Caboose," he complained. "I don't think you get to pause your jet in midair to attend to something else."

"You're funny, Genie," she replied sarcastically, reaching for phone by her knee instead of getting up to check her computer.

"Lt. Love?" Paris assumed.

"No," Johnson replied with a frown. "Some Air Force officer. Kinda late for them to be sending an email, isn't it?" It was almost 1800.

Paris shrugged. "Maybe it got caught up in the server and just made it to your inbox. Or maybe it was sent from a different time zone. Anything exciting?"

Instead of replying, Johnson read silently, her usually tanned face paling. "No," she breathed. "No, they can't do this. It was just a formality. No, no, no."

"What is it?" Paris asked, concerned.

She looked up at him, her eyes distant, as if not really sure that he was really there. "The Air Force refused our petition to get married."

"What?" he asked, not believing. He didn't even know that such forms had to be submitted. "Maybe you just forgot to sign it or something."

"No," she said, her deep brown eyes filling with tears, her voice thick. "No, they said that it's 'not in the best interests of the Air Force to get married at this time.' Not an error. They just…refused to allow it." She started sobbing quietly, burying her face in her hands.

Paris didn't know what to do. He had absolutely no experience comforting crying girls; as an orphan raised in a boy's orphanage, then attending an all-boy's high school before going to the mostly-male Air Force Academy, he really had very little experience with girls at all. Still, he scooted the meter or so over to her and wrapped his arms around her shaking form, making what he hoped were comforting noises as she leaned into his shoulder.

She began to make repetitive sounds, and it took Paris a few moments to realize that she was talking, repeating as if it were a mantra the words, "My fault, my fault."

"It's not your fault," he said insistently. In truth, he wondered if it were, somehow, her fault, but not the way she thought. Ever since hearing about the foster care reform bill, he figured it was about ownership of orphans - controlling where they lived, where they went to school, where they worked. It wouldn't have been too much of a stretch in his mind for them to control their personal life as well.

Johnson shook her head, lifting it from Paris's shoulder to look at him. "It is," she said miserably. "Matt wanted to get married right after graduation, but I said no, I wanted to finish my pilot training first. Idiot! I could be married now. I could—." Her voice broke as she started sobbing again.

"Shh," Paris murmured, pressing her head to his shoulder again, smoothing her thick sandy hair. He didn't know how long the two of them sat together on the floor that way, her quietly sobbing and him quietly comforting, when he heard the soft beeping sound of the old-fashioned card-key in Johnson's door. With the exception of management and housekeeping, only two people had programmed keys to that door: 1st Lt Maggie Johnson and 2LT Matt Love. Of course, as far as management and housekeeping were concerned, the list was shorter by half. "Come on, Caboose," Paris said softly. "I found a new shoulder for you to cry on."

Johnson looked up at him, slightly confused. At his nod, she turned her head toward the door. "Matt!" she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet and throwing herself at him, still sobbing. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," she repeated.

"Hey," Love said firmly, pulling her back slightly so she was looking at him. "This is _not_ your fault. I don't know what happened or what the deal is, but we'll get through this. We'll get married." He gave her a teasing smile. "Assuming you still _want_ to get married, that is."

"Don't be an idiot," she muttered, trying to hold back her smile and failing. Remembering what was going on, the smile faded. "What _are_ we going to do?"

"Get married," he replied with a shrug and grin before getting serious again. "I guess we re-file the papers for the Air Force. The Army has already approved it."

"Wait, what?" Johnson interrupted with a frown. "The Army approved it, but the Air Force denied it? Don't they work for the same people?"

"Guess the right hand doesn't know what the left is doing," Love replied with a shrug. He pulled Johnson in close, kissed her forehead. "Maybe we should hire a lawyer this time, make sure all the t's are crossed and i's are dotted and whatnot. This will happen, Mags. Trust me."

"I just wish we could get married now," Johnson replied with sigh.

"That's not a bad idea," Love replied thoughtfully. Both Johnson and Paris looked at him, confused. "We could go to Vegas and get married tonight, tell them we didn't get the message until after we were married." The more he thought about it, the more excited he got.

"Vegas is sixteen hours away," Paris interjected with a frown.

"I have my plane," Love replied. Like Johnson, he had gotten his pilot's license in high school. Unlike her, his was the result of too much boredom and overindulgent parents. They bought him a small two-seater as a gift when he was accepted to medical school.

"That requires a flight plan and passenger manifest," Paris replied.

"And I'm not authorized to go to Las Vegas," Johnson finished with a sigh. "Besides, your mother would hate me forever."

"No, she wouldn't," Love assured. "She likes you more than me, anyway." He sighed. "But you're right, Vegas is out." He frowned in thought. "What about somewhere around here? What are the marriage license laws in Texas?"

Johnson gaped at him. "You're _serious_ , aren't you? You really want to get married _tonight?_ "

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I do. I've wanted to marry you for years. I don't care what the Air Force says."

She stared at him for a moment. "Let's do it," she replied, her lips spreading into a grin. "Let's get married."

Love whooped in excitement, wrapping his arms around Johnson in an embrace large enough to lift her feet from the floor. He kissed her soundly on the lips.

"Save it for the honeymoon, guys," Paris said dryly. "Maybe they'll let you share a cell in the brig."

"Very funny, Genie," Johnson said, still grinning. "How are we going to do this?"

"Aren't you guys interested in the marriage license laws?" Paris asked, his eyebrows raised, his own phone in hand. He looked it up as soon as Love mentioned it. At the impatient expressions on the faces of the other two officers, he quickly filled them in. "Three day waiting period, but there's a military waiver. You can get married as soon as the ink is dry on the license if you're active duty."

"Good thing you're here," Love joked to Johnson. He was in the reserves until graduation from medical school. He glanced at his watch and frowned. "Shit. It's almost 2000. How are we supposed to find a clerk to get us a license? Or a judge?"

"Know any JAGs?" Paris asked, half-joking. He realized he struck a chord when he saw Love's eyes widen.

"Actually, yes," he said slowly before turning back to Johnson. "Pete. He graduated from law school last year. He's a JAG at Fort Worth. That's only about an hour away from here." He kissed her on the forehead as he pulled out his phone. "I'll give him a call."

Half an hour later, the three were piled into Johnson's hovercar, headed toward Fort Worth. Paris wasn't quite sure how he felt about being part of what he considered to be a private matter, but Johnson had insisted that he come along as a witness. Love had convinced Lt. Peter Stamos, a Navy JAG lawyer who did his undergraduate studies at Purdue with Love and Johnson, to not only issue them a marriage license, but also to put an earlier timestamp on it, to make it look like they got the license before opening the email from the Air Force.

It was almost 2200 when they rolled onto the base, handing their ID cards over to the sergeant at the gate. He glanced into the car, his eyebrows raised. "What is this, a lieutenant party?" he asked. "Boy, you're with the wrong crowd," he directed at Love. After Johnson's mini-crisis on what to wear at her wedding, Love and Paris finally convinced her to just put on a flight suit and call it good, as they would probably get fewer questions on base in uniform than in civvies. Paris had also donned his flight suit, and Love congratulated himself on the foresight to grab his Army Combat Uniform before leaving his Denver apartment.

"I kinda like where I am now," Love replied cheekily as he accepted the ID cards and preceded toward the law offices, where Navy Lieutenant Peter Stamos promised to be waiting with the license. True to his word, Stamos had left a light on on the side of the building, the door underneath it propped open. "Hey, Navy, where are you hiding?" Love called out as they entered.

"That you, Romeo?" a short, swarthy man replied, stepping out of a side office. "Hey, Mags." He embraced the petite blond tightly. "You sure you want to be tied down to this loser for the rest of your life?"

"Yeah, I guess," Johnson replied with mock reluctance before grinning.

"Well, then lets get you guys married. Step into my office."

"They gave you an office?" Love joked as he followed their friend down the hall.

The Greek grinned. "Yeah, I know. Strange. Now, I believe there're a few things to be said and a few papers to be signed." He paused and gave them a quick grin. "My first wedding ceremony. I'm going to call my mom when this is done. She'll be so proud of me. She wanted me to be a priest."

"You?"

"Yeah, I know." He gave them another quick grin. "Good thing she didn't know half of what went on at Purdue." Both Love and Johnson snorted at that. Paris figured it was an inside joke and he probably wouldn't get it anyway.

The ceremony was very short, little more than official-sounding legal phrases and an exchange of vows before they signed all the paperwork, Paris as a witness and Stamos as the officiate. "Well, Lt. Love," Matt Love said with a grin to his new wife. "I think we need to get you two back to Sheppard."

"Some honeymoon," Maggie replied with a sad smile.

"We'll have plenty of time for that," her husband replied sincerely before giving her a kiss. Paris followed them to the car, hoping that Matt was right.


	12. 2375

Lt. B'Elanna Torres swore loudly in Klingon as she hit her head against the inside of a warp conduit for the fourth time that afternoon. "You okay over there, Chief?" Lt. Joe Carey asked a nearby console.

She grunted slightly as she moved out from under the conduit. "Yeah. Just a few more hours of these damn repairs." She brushed aside a lock of hair and activated a console, running a diagnostic on the repairs she just completed.

"Only a few more hours?" Carey repeated, his eyebrows raised. "Taking off early tonight?"

"Neelix has this… thing, for the senior staff," she replied, raising her head to roll her eyes in his direction. He grinned in reply; it was no secret on the ship that Torres preferred to avoid social gatherings. "It's this whole 'get to know your ancestors' thing. He's calling it Ancestor's Eve."

"Catchy."

"Well, whatever it is, it's getting me out of here before 2000, which should make all of you happy." She frowned slightly. "Speaking of which, why are you here? I thought you were taking night shift."

"Sue wasn't feeling well, so she asked me to come in a bit early. I told her to go to Sickbay. Hopefully she'll be feeling better by 2000 when you have to take off."

Torres only grunted in reply, already scrolling through the results of her diagnostic. "If not, if anything comes up, don't hesitate to call me."

"Of course," Carey replied smoothly, pulling out his own tool box and opening another warp conduit. "By the way, I found something for you. You can use it in your Ancestor's Eve celebration." He said it lightly, with a teasing hint in his voice that Torres rolled her eyes at.

"What is it?" she asked reluctantly. He handed over a PADD.

"I couldn't fall asleep right away after my last shift, so I did some research." He paused slightly, letting Torres read the title on the PADD. Her eyes widened as she comprehended what she was holding. "Colonel Samuel T. Paris, that's the right guy, right?"

"Yeah," Torres replied absently. "Joe, this is perfect. Thank you. How did you find it?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "I just remembered some of the databases Anne was using when she was doing her research. I was a bit surprised that we had it in our library, to be honest."

"I can't believe I didn't find this," Torres mused. The book, written by Samuel Paris himself, was entitled _Before the Martian Sunrise_.

"It wasn't where you would think to look," Carey said. "It was in the Social Commentary/History databases."

"Well, regardless of where it was, thank you," Torres said sincerely. "Tom will love this." She took another moment to look at it, viewing the artwork that once graced the cover of the printed book, a vista she wouldn't have recognized as the Martian plateau without the context, lacking the landscaping and buildings of present-day Mars. She saved the data on the PADD and set it in her toolkit with a reluctant sigh. "Okay, Joe. Back to work. The warp core isn't going to repair itself."


	13. 2039

First Lieutenant Sam Paris ran his credit chip over the taxi's payment reader and waited the few seconds necessary for the transaction to go through. "Looks good," the operator said.

"Thanks, sir," Paris replied, grabbing his duffle from the empty seat next to him as he opened the door, exposing himself to the heat and humidity of Patrick Air Force Base at Cape Canaveral, Florida.

He stood outside the single officer's housing for a few long minutes, watching the hovercar that brought him on base as it drove off. Technically, he didn't have to in-process for another week, but it wasn't as if he had anything else to do. Graduation from flight school was three days ago, and it seemed that as soon as the assignments were handed out, the students all went their separate ways. Monkey and Caboose were both assigned to Spangdahlem Air Base in Germany; Monk took the time off to see his parents, and Maggie was finally getting her honeymoon—a one-week Caribbean cruise before heading over to Germany. She had requested Langley Air Force Base in Virginia, hoping that the Air Force would put into account the fact that Matt would probably end up at Walter Reed National Medical Center in DC, but the Air Force still refused to acknowledge that the wedding even happened in the first place. They let her change her last name to Love, but that was it. When she was assigned so far away, she wryly suggested that they were just trying to punish her for trying to get married without permission. The rest of their classmates from flight school were spread out to various bases around the world, but Paris was the only one assigned to Patrick, leaving him, once again, completely alone. It was a familiar feeling to him, but for the first time, it actually bothered him that he didn't have anyone.

With a resolute air, he shook off the feeling and tossed his duffle—containing everything he owned in the world—over his shoulder and entered the housing complex.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself on the twelfth floor, standing in the middle of the living room of a two-bedroom apartment, staring at the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean out the picture window. "Are you sure this is the right apartment?" he asked the housing coordinator, incredulous.

"First Lieutenant Samuel T. Paris, Atmospheric Flight Team, assigned to quarters 1215. That's you, and that's here," she replied.

"You mean everyone on Atmospheric Flight has quarters like this?" he asked.

She laughed. "Of course not," she scoffed. "Five of the other pilots are married, and the other two are majors. Their housing is much nicer." He stared at her for a moment, trying to decide if she was joking, but she looked fairly honest about it. "Have you in-processed yet?" she asked, changing the subject.

"No, I'm not scheduled until next week," he replied. "I figured I'd get here early, get comfortable, see if I could figure out how things work before actually having to go to work."

"That sounds like a smart idea," she replied. "One thing that I suggest, though, is to stop by and see Dr. Savage, the head flight surgeon for the team."

"I just had a flight physical."

"Dr. Savage likes to see all of her patients personally. She's the primary physician for the eight pilots of the AFT and the general, and she makes sure she knows everything about each of them."

He frowned slightly; his last flight surgeon had over a hundred patients. He didn't know what this housing coordinator thought she knew, but he doubted that Dr. Savage had only nine patients. "I'll go do that," he said, doubting he would. "Where's her office?"

"Well, I'm not sure where she is today," the coordinator replied with a frown. "She has an office at the hospital and another at the flight center, but I think her main office is in the medical annex. She's the Chief of Preventive Medicine at Patrick, which means she is the most senior of two preventive medicine doctors. Or she could be out on a mission. I didn't even think about that."

"On a mission?" he asked.

"Yes, she's the Army's leading tropical medicine epidemiologist. Whenever there's an outbreak of some exotic disease around the world, she gets called." She gave a short, high-pitched laugh. "Some say that the only reason Australia hasn't attacked us is because if they did, they'd lose her services."

He smiled politely at that. "Well, do you have any idea how I can get a hold of her?"

She looked surprised at the request, as if she expected him to stop by each of those offices in hopes of finding the doctor. "You could call the hospital switchboard," she suggested. She gave that same trilling laugh. "Just be sure to specify Dr. _Bryndis_ Savage. There are two Dr. Savages. You wouldn't want to get the wrong one."

"Of course not," he replied, forcing a smile. A minute later, she took the hint and left, telling him not to hesitate to call if he had any questions.

It took him less than fifteen minutes to unpack his duffle, and not much more than that to explore his new apartment, making mental a list of the things he had to purchase, now that he had a posting that would last longer than twelve months.

With a sigh, he collapsed into his desk chair, registering in the back of his mind that it was actually quite comfortable. _Been here for less than two hours, and already bored out of my mind,_ he thought. Truth be told, he didn't sit still very well. Without really knowing why he was doing it, he reached for the desk phone and asked for the hospital operator.

Colonel Bryndis Savage, MD, MPH, DTM&H, Flight Surgeon, Chief of Preventive Medicine at Patrick Air Force Base, glanced up from her computer monitor at the sound of a knock on her door. "Ah, Lt. Paris. Have a seat."

"Ma'am," he replied, standing stiffly at attention just inside the door. Already back to her report, Savage didn't notice.

A minute later, she glanced up, an amused expression on her face. "At ease, Lieutenant. You look like you're going to sprain something." He relaxed marginally, but remained standing. "And sit down," she said, nodding to the chair across from the desk. "You're making me nervous."

"I apologize, ma'am," he replied, sitting stiffly in the chair she indicated. She raised an eyebrow at him, but didn't respond.

A minute later, she closed the report and directed her attention at the pilot in front of her. "Sorry about that," she said with a small smile as she smoothed back an errant lock of short dark red hair, tinged with gray. "Last minute administrative stuff. So. Welcome to Florida."

"Thank you, ma'am."

She smiled at the formality, but didn't say anything about it. "I got your medical records from Sheppard. You just had a flight physical, so I won't subject you to all that. I just had a few questions about your file." She glanced up at him, but he didn't respond, waiting for her to continue. "Next of kin. The line is blank."

"Yes, ma'am."

"If anything should happen to you and you're not able to communicate, who do you want to make your medical decisions?"

"You," he replied, as if it were obvious. "Or whichever medical personnel is on-duty."

She studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay. For the record, then, what would you want us to do?"

"If you can make me better, do it. If you can't, don't."

" _That_ was perfectly clear, Lieutenant," she said sarcastically.

He shrugged. "Well, ma'am, I'm assuming you know more about that than I do."

She rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to reply when the chirping of her computer interrupted her. She glanced at the display and sighed as she accepted the call. "I'm with a patient, Dev."

 _*Well, I haven't heard of anyone contracting Ebola or Lassa lately, so I'm assuming you're with a pilot,*_ the amused male voice replied. _*And knowing you, the comm's on speaker because you haven't gotten the headset repaired yet. Hey, pilot.*_

Savage shook her head at Paris, indicating he didn't have to answer. "Shut up, Deven. Any reason why you're calling?"

_*My last two patients cancelled, so I'm almost done for the day. I was planning on coming over. That okay with you?*_

"Yeah, that's fine. Just give me about half an hour."

 _*Oh, one more thing,*_ the voice continued before she got the chance to disconnect. _*Your daughter is in town. On base, actually. She was planning on visiting you sometime soon.*_

Savage sighed, massaging her temples briefly. "Please tell me you're talking about Halle, because if either of the twins is around, we have bigger problems than cleaning out one of the guest rooms."

He laughed. _*Yeah, it's Halle. Just thought you'd want to know. I'll see you in a bit.*_

"Later, Dev." She disconnected the line before he got a chance to add anything else. "Sorry about that," she apologized to Paris.

"Your husband?" he asked, gesturing with his head toward the family portrait on the wall, seven smiling people in uniform, the only personal touch in the office. The other frames held her numerous diplomas and certifications.

"Yes," she replied. "He's an infectious disease physician at the hospital." She glanced toward the picture and rolled her eyes. "The standard propaganda photo, the family in uniform. What that portrait doesn't tell you is that Deven was a civilian doc until he was conscripted seven years ago, and the only reason he hasn't resigned his commission is that it's actually easier to juggle the postings of two Army physicians than one. Halle, the redhead, was ROTC at MIT and now has a Ph.D. in chemical engineering. Nate is the one in the Army uniform, and he's in the reserves while at medical school at Johns Hopkins. Erik is a junior at the Air Force Academy, and the twins, Anja and Nik, just started their sophomore year at West Point."

"Quite the family," he remarked politely.

She glanced over at him, amusement in her liquid green eyes. "Yes, they are. And you're about to meet one of them. Hello, Halle."

"Hey, Mom." The voice came from a tall redhead leaning against the doorframe, the railroad track insignia on her Army Combat Uniform marking her as a captain. She turned toward Paris and smiled. "Hi, I'm Halle."

"Lt. Sam Paris," he said, springing to his feet. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

She nodded slightly, shaking his hand before turning back to her mother. "John's company got back from Brazil four days ago. We decided to stop through on our way to Key West for R&R."

"You brought Captain Martinez with you?" Dr. Savage replied with mock reluctance. "And why is it I can't finish a conference with one of my pilots without everyone from my family stopping by?"

Captain Savage shrugged as she ran a hand through her short red curls. "If he's one of your pilots, he'll get to know the whole family soon enough, anyway. And yeah, John's here. It just takes him awhile to get around, with his knuckles dragging on the ground and all."

Colonel Savage grinned in reply before explaining to Paris: "John is Halle's fiancée. He's an infantry company commander, so his lag on the evolutionary scale is a wide-spread joke in the family."

"What they don't tell you is that he has a Ph.D. in military theory," another voice added to the mix.

"Which you did online during deployment because you were bored," Captain Savage tossed back over her shoulder. "Some of us went to real schools."

"Sounds like a waste of time and effort." Captain John Martinez blinked in surprise when he saw who was standing there. "Sam Paris, right?"

"That's right, sir," Paris replied cautiously, trying to figure out how he would know the older man.

Martinez hooted in laughter. "That's great! I have to go all the way to Florida to see another Augustine alum." He turned toward Dr. Savage, still grinning. "Your new pilot was the star of the Augustine varsity basketball team as a freshman. Led the team in rebounds." Noticing Paris's confused expression, he filled him in. "I was a senior when you were a freshman. Played on the baseball team, but I went to every single one of those home basketball games. By far the best sport we had at that school."

"Thanks," Paris replied, giving up after frantically trying to remember if he had met the man nine years before. He turned to Colonel Savage. "If there's nothing else, ma'am, I'll leave you to your family now."

"Just a few ground rules," Savage replied, back to business. "Some of these are General Banks' rules, too, and you'll hear them from him when you in-process next week. No drinking if you have a flight scheduled for the next day, no more than three drinks in one setting regardless of flight status." She studied him for a second with a frown. "Do you use ordenine?"

He knew what ordenine was; it was impossible to be in the military and not know about the legal narcotic that many commanding officers were using to control their troops. "No, ma'am," he replied. "The commander of my flight—my company—at the Academy wanted everyone on it, but my basketball coach told us that any drug use and we'd be off the team. Nobody at flight school seemed to have an opinion one way or the other about it, so I didn't take it."

She nodded. "Good. Don't. If you do, you're off flight status, and if you think I'm joking, just try it. I do random drug screens for any number of drugs, and if you test positive for any, you are not going in the air. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. What else is there? Oh, vaccinations. You're up to date on all the standard vaccines, we throw in a few more here because we fly all over the globe. Sometime before you in-process we'll get that taken care of. Last thing, we're a small squadron, only eight pilots. You'll get a feel for the group soon enough. The pilots PT together every morning, I join in when I feel ambitious enough. General Banks and Colonel Maki will let you know more about the teamwork activities you're expected to participate in. Do you have any questions for me?"

He thought about it for a second before shaking his head. "No, ma'am, you've explained everything fairly well."

"Good. Give me a call sometime to set up a vaccination appointment. That's all I have for you." He didn't move from his position, and it took her a second to register why. "You're dismissed, Lieutenant."

He snapped back to attention quickly before turning and leaving the office. As he exited the medical annex and walked back toward his new apartment, he processed everything that just happened. Strangely enough, he realized that he didn't feel as lonely has he had on the walk out. Sure, Caboose and his other friends from flight school were spread out across the world, but if everyone on the Atmospheric Flight Team was as friendly as Dr. Savage made them seem, it wouldn't be long before he had new ones.


	14. 2375

Ensign Tom Paris didn't bother to hide his grin when Lt. B'Elanna Torres entered the Mess Hall, looking as if she had come straight from Engineering. "Hey," he said, crossing the room to stand next to her. "Do you want a glass of champagne?"

"Please," she replied, frustration obvious in her voice.

He grinned again as he guided her toward the table in the middle of the room where the refreshments were set up. "Modifications going well?"

"Pretty well," she admitted. "We're almost a day ahead of schedule."

"That's good news," he commented, handing over the flute of champagne. "Are you going back to work after this?"

"No, not tonight," she said, surprising him. "I have something for you in my quarters."

"Oh?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in a suggestive leer. She hit his arm lightly in reply, turning to talk to Ensign Harry Kim. He grinned, draping his arm over her shoulder in the type of public display of affection that she hated, but she didn't shrug him off.

The captain finally arrived about half an hour after the rest of her senior staff, looking even more drained than usual. When Neelix explained Ancestor's Eve, she laughed slightly and started to protest, but her crew would have none of it.

"He has a point, Captain," Commander Chakotay said with a grin. "An evening of reflection in honor of those who had come before."

"Uncle Jack would approve," Harry added with a grin of his own.

B'Elanna shrugged, taking another sip of her champagne. "Hey, it gave me a reason to crawl out from under that warp conduit I was working on."

Janeway had to smile at that. "I appreciate the gesture, but—"

"Neelix," Paris interrupted. "Maybe now would be a good time to give the captain her present."

"Oh, yes, of course," Neelix bubbled. "I had done some more research, and found this," he said, presenting the framed photograph. "This was taken around 2050 near Portage Creek, about thirty-eight years after the dedication of Millennium Gate." He grinned. "I think it would look just lovely on the shelf near your desk in your ready room."

Janeway protested, but was again interrupted, this time by Seven and Tuvok, with Chakotay again putting in his few words. Without giving Janeway any more opportunity to say anything, the Doctor grabbed his holocamera and insisted on a new 'family portrait.' Torres rolled her eyes at Paris. He laughed in reply, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her close to him.

After the holo was taken, everyone stayed around to socialize. It didn't escape anyone's notice that Seven and Torres seemed to be avoiding each other, never standing in the same group, but nobody commented on it. Knowing Torres as well as they did, they all knew that it would still be some time before she forgave the former Borg for the recent events in the Mess Hall. Paris was just impressed at his lover's restraint; a few years ago, there would have undoubtedly been some sort of brawl by now.

It was getting close to 2300 when Paris first caught Torres's deep yawn, and it was little wonder, with how many hours she had been working lately. She was in the middle of a conversation about the warp core modifications with the captain, who didn't miss it, either. "I appreciate everything you're doing to get the core updated, B'Elanna, but you look like you could use some rest," Janeway said with a gentle smile.

Torres opened her mouth to reply, but another yawn escaped. "I think you're right, Captain," she admitted.

"I should go with her, to make sure she actually makes it to her quarters instead of heading back to Engineering," Paris chimed in. Torres rolled her eyes.

"What a gentleman," she said dryly, causing the captain to grin.

"Have a goodnight, you two." They bid their farewells and headed for the turbolift, walking close together but not actually touching, maintaining professional decorum as they nodded their goodnights to the few crewmates they passed on the way to deck nine.

Once inside Torres' quarters, she pointed toward the couch and told Paris: "Sit."

He grinned cheekily. "Yes, ma'am," he replied. She rolled her eyes and headed for the sleeping area. She returned a moment later, a small wrapped package in hand.

"My birthday was almost three weeks ago," he said with a laugh. "And I rather enjoyed my present."

She rolled her eyes again, but he didn't miss the smile that crossed her face. "Just open it," she said, exasperated.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

"I'm almost looking forward to you getting your rank back so you'll stop saying that." He grinned as he tore open the wrapping.

"Oh, wow," he said quietly, turning the bound book over in his hands. "This is amazing. Thank you. How did you find it?"

"Joe found it, actually," she admitted, taking a seat next to him. "I've told him about this whole Ancestor's Eve thing, and he did some research on his own. He told me where to find it, and I know how you feel about bound books, so I replicated it for you."

"Thanks," he repeated, turning his head to kiss her lightly. " _Before the Martian Sunrise_ ," he read, studying the cover for a moment before opening it to the dedication page. He read silently, B'Elanna curled up next to him to read along.

The first line read, "It would be impossible to list the names of all the U.S. citizens who gave their lives to their country for little reason other than their misfortune to not have parents, but there is one I could not go without mentioning. Caboose, this is for you. You deserved to have it all, but never had the opportunity to live it. For once, I wish I could say that I was wrong."


	15. 2040

Lieutenant Colonel Lindsay "Wildcat" Maki whooped in excitement as she rejoined the formation. " _That's_ what I'm talking about, Genie!" she exclaimed.

"How many is that now, Genie? Four?" Major Bob "Penny" Lincoln joked. "Maybe next time you'll make ace."

Paris couldn't help but grin. "Then I could be just like you, Penny," he joked back. "You're my hero." That was actually his seventh kill, having made ace three months before, but that was hardly noteworthy in this squadron, which included three double aces, one of which, Wildcat, was an ace in a day, meaning she shot down five enemy crafts in a single day. Before the F-43's—the Atmospheric Fighters—the last pilot to claim that feat flew in 1965. The F-43's were the United States' new secret weapon, fighters capable of handling quickly changing conditions between high-atmosphere and low-earth flight—faster, quieter, and more maneuverable than anything any of their enemies had come up with, capable of reaching any point on the globe in less than two hours.

"That's just what we need," Major Emily "Picnic" Zha joked. "Another Penny. Can't you find another pilot to emulate?"

"Like who?" Penny shot back. "You? Now, there's an aspiration." All five of the pilots in formation chuckled.

"Okay, guys, enough messing around," Wildcat inserted between laughs. "Time to head back to Patrick. Anyone know what time it is in Florida?"

"Oh-five-thirty," Picnic replied. "We can watch the sunrise."

Wildcat snorted over the comm line. "We can watch it all the way back from high-atmosphere and still have time to get to the beach and watch it again."

"Sounds like a plan. Let's do it," Picnic said, angling her F-43 up.

"You heard her, guys. Let's go high," Wildcat said. As one, the five planes turned their noses steeply up, headed for the outer atmosphere.

"This is a sight I will never get tired of," Picnic breathed as they watched the first sliver of the sun over the round of the Earth. "God, that's beautiful. Almost enough to make me believe in God. Hey, Genie, you want to watch the sunrise from the beach with me?"

"Umm…" he stammered, much to the amusement of the other three pilots.

"C'mon, Picnic. He's only a kid. Give him a break," Penny said with a laugh.

"Genie, you know on your first day, when we told you we'd tell you how Picnic got her call sign when you're older? Well, I think now's as good a time as any. You see—" Captain Keith "Doc" Sharpless began.

"Don't you think he's a bit young for that story?" Wildcat interjected, causing another round of laughter.

"It's going to be something really lame, and you're just building it up to make me wonder, aren't you?" Genie asked with a grin.

"Aww, we'd never do that to you, kid," Penny replied. The five continued joking among themselves all the way back to base, landing just as the first hint of dawn appeared over the horizon.

The remaining three pilots in their squadron and their flight surgeon met them at the end of the runway, still in PT gear in the middle of the morning's session. Dr. Savage was the first to break off and head toward them, a wide grin on her face. "Hey, guys," she greeted. "We're having a cookout in a few days at my house; the twins are in town on break from West Point and wanted to celebrate surviving another semester. You in?"

"Sure," Wildcat replied, still grinning with the excitement of their victory. "It's been too long since I've seen those girls." The others murmured their agreements, except Paris, who remained non-committal. It wasn't his first invitation to the Savage house, but with his obligations to the squad, he had yet to actually make it to one of those gatherings. Savage looked over at him, an eyebrow raised.

"Paris?" she prompted. He blushed slightly.

"I'll try, ma'am," he replied, to her obvious amusement. She rolled her eyes slightly but let it go as the other pilots finally headed over.

"How'd it go?" Major Catherine "Magic" Vlasnik asked as they approached.

"One hundred over one hundred," Wildcat replied promptly, meaning that they achieved all of their mission goals without any damage to themselves. "Also took out four ECON planes. Genie got the last one before the rest retreated."

"Good job!" Magic enthused. "Get a nice new flag painted on your craft."

"That's what I do it for," Paris replied dryly. "All the pretty decorations on my plane." Magic grinned in reply before her face became serious again.

"Before I forget, Genie, there's a pilot here to see you. I think he introduced himself as Captain Monk."

"Monkey," Paris said with a grin. "That's his call sign. We went to flight school together. I wonder what he's doing here. Last I heard, he's stationed over in Germany."

"Well, whatever the reason, he's in the pilot lounge now."

"Thanks, Magic. Wildcat, do you mind?"

"Go ahead," she said with a nod. "We can debrief later." He nodded and snapped to attention before turning to head toward the flight offices, but didn't salute. It had taken him awhile, but since joining the Atmospheric Flight Team a little more than a year before, he had grown accustomed to the personal style of the team, which included strange guidelines about when and when not to salute. Immediately after a mission with helmets in hand was a 'when not'.

He found Monkey in the pilot lounge, just as Magic had promised, wearing a flight suit and his aviator sunglasses despite the lights being out and only the dim morning dawn filtering in through the window. "Hey, Monkey," Paris said, pointing at the sunglasses. "Pretending to be cool?"

"Something like that," Monk replied. He looked around the lounge. "Nice place you have here."

"It serves our purpose." He waited for Monk to explain why he was there, but he remained quiet. He finally opened his mouth to speak when Picnic and Doc entered the lounge.

"Is there someplace we can go to talk?" Monk asked instead.

"Sure, we can use my office," Paris replied, now a little confused and a little concerned about what was going on.

"You have your own office?" Monk asked as they made their way down the hall to Paris's small alcove. "I consider myself lucky when I can find a chair in our lounge."

Paris didn't reply to that as he opened the door to his office. "Okay, Monkey, what's the deal?" he asked as they took their seats.

"It's 'Wrench' now, actually."

"Ah. Monkey Wrench. I get it."

"Yeah," Monk replied, sounding almost sad. "It's because I'm a tool. That's according to Caboose, of course."

"Of course," Paris replied with a grin. "How is Mrs. Love, anyway?"

Monk didn't say anything for a few minutes, his face—and Paris assumed his gaze, but it was impossible to tell through the silverized sunglasses—toward the window. "Caboose went down," he finally said. "We both did, actually."

"Oh, God," Paris breathed. There would be only one reason for Monk to come see him after their planes went down. "She's…"

"Yeah," Monk said quietly. "We were in Russia, dog-fighting against some of their newest fighters. I was at her wing, saw the whole thing." He paused, swallowed a few times, and then continued. "She did everything textbook. Everything exactly as we were taught. She was hit, her whole plane went up in flames. There wasn't even time for her to eject. I was hit a few seconds later, managed to pop out. I was less than a hundred feet away when what was left of her plane flashed."

"Your eyes," Paris said, filling in the blanks.

"Yeah. I can still see, can see a little bit better now than the day I woke up in the hospital, and the ophthalmologists say it will get a little bit better still, but I'll never be able to fly again."

"Shit."

"You can say that again."

The two men sat quietly in the small office, neither saying anything. It could have been five seconds or thirty minutes before Paris broke the silence. "How's Matt?"

"Not good," Monk replied. "Depressed, furious. Almost quit his internship, he was in such bad shape." He shook his head. "Things are bad. The Air Force is dragging their feet, saying that they weren't married. I don't know if he'll ever get benefits or even the right to bury her."

"What the hell?" Paris exclaimed. "Why are they doing this? Why are they _still_ doing this?"

"It gets worse," Monk continued. "Like I said, the Air Force is dragging their feet. Word is, there aren't even going to be any benefits for Matt to collect anyway. They're trying to pin this on her." He paused again. "There wasn't much left of her after the explosion, but they managed to find a few bits and pieces, enough for some blood tests." Another pause. "She was pregnant."

"Pregnant," Paris repeated, not quite believing. "God. Did she know?"

Monk shook her head. "I can't see how, or why. There's no way she would have gone in the air if she knew."

"When was the last time Matt visited?"

"Almost ten weeks before it happened."

Paris shook his head. "She knew. She couldn't have _not_ known. Why the hell did she go in the air?"

"I don't know, Genie, but I know that, despite what the Air Force says, that had nothing to do with her going down. I'm telling you, she was textbook."

"That's why she went down," Paris said. "Everyone reads the same textbooks."

"I know."

Silence again fell over the office. Monk pulled something out of a pocket and cleared his throat quietly. "I volunteered to clean out Caboose's stuff, so I could make sure Matt got it before the Air Force just threw everything out. I didn't think Matt would mind if you got this." He handed over the small black and gold ball.

"God," Paris said with a chuckle. "I never thought I'd see this again." He spun the ball, a miniature basketball that Maggie said she got at a Purdue basketball game. "All the times I heard this being thrown against the wall…"

"Yeah," Monk said, managing a small smile. "She was always fidgeting with something as she studied."

"Remember the time Colonel Wenzel took away her pens because she kept clicking them in class?"

"Or when he threatened to shave her head because she twirled her hair?" They laughed together, sharing memories of their friend.

"So what's next for you?" Paris asked after awhile.

"I don't know," Monk said with a shrug. "Haven't quite figured it out yet. There was a show on when my parents were in high school called _JAG_ , about a Navy pilot who lost his flight status because of his vision, went to law school and became a JAG."

"That's what you're going to do? Law school?"

"I don't know," Monk replied with another shrug. "Maybe. I was also thinking about Military Intelligence."

"Doesn't that require, you know, intelligence?"

"Funny. I'm thinking of entering politics eventually."

Paris snorted. "And what qualifications do you have?"

"I crashed a multi-million dollar airplane. That seems to be a qualification these days. And I know all the things to say to be elected. Stop the war and all that crap. Senator Monk. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

"I'd vote for you," Paris joked. "I'm sorry about your eyes."

"Yeah. Life sucks. I'm getting used to it. Matt's having a memorial service in DC in three days. It would mean a lot to him if you were there."

"I'll do my best," Paris promised. Promising to try was as much as he could do.


	16. 2375

Ensign Tom Paris took a sip of Neelix's latest coffee substitute, not even tasting the bitter, slightly spicy brew. His attention was focused on the open book resting on his knees, his feet propped up on the bulkhead under the viewport in the mess hall. The room was nearly empty, only a few stray crewmen seeking a mid-afternoon snack and Neelix, happily humming along in the kitchen.

"Hi, Tom," Naomi Wildman's childish voice greeted him. He glanced over at her, giving her a bright smile. "What are you doing?"

"Reading a book," he replied. A second later, he added, "and waiting for B'Elanna and Harry to come off duty."

"Oh," she replied. "Why aren't you on duty?"

He chuckled in reply. "It's 1625. I got off duty at 1600. They're working on the warp core modifications, so they might be working for awhile."

"Oh," she said again. She turned her attention back to the book he was reading. "Why are you reading it like that instead of on a PADD?"

"Sometimes, I like to read books like this. It feels more personal that reading off a PADD. When I was your age, my dad used to read me stories from bound books." He frowned slightly at the memory. He could distinctly remember a time - only a few years ago - when he thought of his entire childhood as filled with darkness and the burdens of unspoken pressure. When he took the time to think about now, he realized that there were actually a lot more happy moments from his childhood than otherwise. It was amazing how much a change in life circumstances changed perceptions of memories. He blinked once and got his mind back to the conversation. "Have you ever read a book like this?"

She shook her head. "What's it about?"

"The book? It's about a pilot, the first person to fly an orbital glider across the Martian plateau. But before he did that, he was a fighter pilot during Earth's third world war. Most of this book is about that."

"The _third_ world war?" Naomi asked, her eyes wide. "How many were there?"

Paris chuckled. "Only three. This was the last one, but it was really bad. A lot of people died, and even after the war was over, there were still a lot of people who were sick and living without homes and without enough food. It wasn't until first contact with the Vulcans ten years after the war ended that things started to get better again. And even after that, it took a long time to fix all the problems." One could argue that Earth still bore some of the scars of Colonel Green's actions and the deaths of millions of people.

"How did the war start?"

Paris was about to launch into explanations he remembered from his history courses when he remembered that, despite looking closer to seven or eight, Naomi was barely four years old. Instead, he said, "It took awhile to build up to an actual war. There were many different groups of people who didn't like each other, and so there were a lot of small wars. The _big_ war started when one of those groups, led by a man named Colonel Phillip Green, attacked another group, a country called the United States of America."

"Which side did he fight for?" Naomi asked, her eyes wide as she pointed to the book.

"The United States," Paris informed her.

"So, they were the good guys?"

He frowned at that. "I don't know if anyone was really 'the good guys' in this war. Each group of people did some pretty bad things. But the author of this book, Colonel Sam Paris, he seemed like a good guy."

"Was he your grandfather?"

He chuckled. "More like great-great-great-and even more greats-grandfather."

"What was he like?"

"Well," he said, trying to figure out how to word it, as he wasn't even halfway through the book yet. "He was smart, and he was a really good pilot. But even more importantly, he was nice to his friends and cared a lot about them." He frowned slightly. "In many ways, he and his friends were a lot like us on _Voyager_. They had to depend on each other, take care of each other. Everyone had a job to do and counted on each other to do their jobs, too."

"Was his mom there, too?"

He grinned at her literal view of his words. "No, he didn't know his mother."

"What about his dad?"

He shook his head again. "He didn't know his dad, either."

She frowned. "So who did he have?"

"He had his friends."


	17. 2042

"Call," First Lieutenant Sam Paris said with confidence, showing his cards. "Two pair, jack high."

"Two pair, jack high?" Colonel Bryndis Savage repeated, a slight grimace on her face. "Too bad that doesn't beat a straight," she said, laying her cards on the table as a slow grin appeared on her face. "So sorry, Paris. Better luck next time."

"Colonel, you're going to rob us blind," Paris groaned as the physician scooped up the pile of coins. "Nickels and dimes add up after awhile, you know."

"Nobody's forcing you to play, Lieutenant," Savage joked as she made piles of coins in front of her. "And didn't anybody ever warn you about playing poker against a doctor? After all, they teach us how to lie in med school."

"Serious?" Captain Michael "Poker" Anderson asked, his dark eyes wide and round. He got his call sign from his terrible poker face and inability to bluff, yet every week, he was there right on time, his coins ready to be given away to whoever was having a good evening.

"Yeah," Savage replied, handing the cards over to Paris to deal. "All that 'we did all we could' and 'you're going to be just fine' stuff." She couldn't help but laugh as the others around the table paused momentarily, staring at her. "Joking, guys. I guess I am better at this lying thing than I thought. Either that, or you guys are just unbelievably gullible."

Paris opened his mouth to reply, but his words were halted by the sudden chirping of Dr. Savage's communicator, clipped to the belt of her Army Combat Uniform. "Sorry, guys," Savage apologized. She glanced at the message, her face paling. "This can't be right," she murmured.

"What is it, Doc?" Paris asked, beginning to deal the cards out.

"Don't deal me in for this one, Paris," Savage said, standing. "Supposedly, someone just found a biological missile launching site in the Virgin Islands. I have to go verify this."

"You're kidding, right?" Poker asked with a frown. "How can they hide that in the Virgin Islands?"

"Why do you think I need to verify it?" Savage snapped, then sighed deeply. "Sorry. I'll be right back." She ducked out of the room, leaving the four young pilots frozen in place, hoping her intel was wrong.

"I take it the intel was verified?" 1st Lt Sam Paris asked later, sticking his head into the open doorway of Dr. Savage's office.

She glanced up at him and sighed deeply. "Unfortunately, yes. How they managed to build a bioweapon facility right under our noses is beyond me, but it's definitely there." She sighed again. "Come on in, Lieutenant. Sorry I wasn't more fun at poker tonight."

"Eh, we're used to our doc leaving us in the middle of the game for one thing or another," Paris said with a grin, taking a seat on one of her spare chairs. He could still remember the first time he had been in that office, how stiff he had been at attention, barely willing to sit despite her insistence that he did so. He had come a long way in the last few years; at least, he would like to think so. "So, what's the deal with this facility?"

"I don't even know," Savage replied. "Command wants to bomb it, but if they do that, they'll just be sending this stuff in the atmosphere to have it fall right back where it came from, without the benefit of a level-four facility to keep it contained."

"That doesn't sound too good," Paris replied with a slight smile.

"No, not really," Savage said, smiling in reply. "I've already responded, explaining the situation with this particular pathogen. Now we just have to wait for their reply."

Paris raised his eyebrows and pulled the deck of cards from the pocket of his flight suit. "How about a game of poker while we wait?"

"That, Lieutenant, sounds like a great idea," Savage replied. She smiled, but Paris could tell her heart wasn't in it, too distracted by this latest development. "Let's go."

* * *

It had been almost five years since Colonel Bryndis Savage was assigned to be the flight surgeon of the Atmospheric Flight Team. At first, she was resistant to the idea of being tied down to one group or one location, but she quickly learned that the job was everything she wanted in a posting—the small patient load gave her the time to concentrate on her tropical medicine research, and the fact that she was attached to the fastest flying airplanes meant that she was the first called whenever there an outbreak of any disease between the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn, which had only solidified her reputation was one of the foremost tropical medicine experts alive.

At this particular moment, said tropical medicine physician was leaning over a video conference screen, the expression on her face intent. "As I explained already, General, this facility _cannot_ be safely bombed at this time."

"I respect your opinion, Dr. Savage, but this was our decision," General Underbridge replied. "I don't know how ECON built the facility without us noticing in the first place, but now that it's here, we simply cannot leave a biological weapons launching site sitting around."

"I understand that, General. Believe me, I understand that," Savage replied. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to figure out how to let this man, who had no training in medicine or microbiology, into what exactly they were dealing with. "But you have to understand what I'm saying. From what I've seen of the facility's layout, an aerial strike would have devastating consequences. The level-four lab will lose negative airflow with any assault. This will result in the release of this pathogen into the atmosphere. Depending on atmospheric conditions at the time of the attack, the strike zone could be anywhere between three hundred and three thousand miles. Are you willing to risk the entire population of the United States to destroy this facility?"

"If we don't destroy it, the population of the United States will undoubtedly be hit by this pathogen," Underbridge replied. "And it is of the opinion of our medical council that the heat of the blast will be sufficient to incinerate any lifeform."

"Your medical council is an idiot, sir," Savage replied emphatically. "What I don't understand is why you're taking the word of an internist still wearing railroad tracks over a full-bird who has published _the_ textbook on tropical diseases. We are dealing with an encapsulated virus specifically engineered to withstand the heat and stresses of a missile explosion. Your blast will do nothing to this pathogen. Sir."

"I understand how you feel, Colonel—"

"With all due respect, _sir,_ you obviously don't," Savage argued. "If you did, you would be sending a medical team in to neutralize the pathogen before dropping bombs."

General Underbridge shook his head slightly. "We have considered that, Colonel. Unfortunately, the facility is wired in such a way that an unauthorized entry would result in the release of the missiles within thirty minutes. We can't take that risk."

"You _have to_ take that risk, General." She took a deep breath, considering her words carefully before speaking them aloud. "I can neutralize the pathogen in less than half an hour, General. I have the expertise. If you don't let me do this, you will be sentencing the majoring of the population of the United States to a swift and painful death."

Underbridge studied the physician silently for a moment before nodding slowly. "Very well, Colonel. I don't see another alternative." He paused slightly, both of them knowing exactly how this would play out. "But just so we're all on the same page, you will have twenty-nine minutes after getting into the facility before the bombs will hit. We can't risk a second longer, no matter what your status at that moment."

"I understand, General," Savage replied quietly. "Thank you."


	18. 2375

Lt. B'Elanna Torres barely glanced at her computer console as she entered the final sequence to start the level one diagnostic, pausing only in her work to hear the confirmatory chime that the study was starting. She gave a satisfied nod and began collecting her equipment before straightening and moving away from the warp core control station.

"Hey, Starfleet," she said as she headed over to where Ensign Harry Kim was quietly working. "The diagnostic is going to take four hours to run. You ready to call it a day?"

"Sure," he replied with a shrug as he locked out the computer station. They turned and headed for the exit from engineering before he spoke again. "You have plans for the evening?"

She shook her head slightly. "Dinner, and then I'll be right back here in four hours to go over those diagnostic results." She glanced over at her friend when he didn't reply and frowned at the concerned expression on his face. "What?" she asked, irritated.

"You've been putting in pretty long hours on this project," he commented.

"I'm the chief engineer, Harry. It's my job."

"Well, yeah," he stammered, his face blushing slightly. "I don't mean to pry, but—"

"But you _do_ mean to pry, or you wouldn't be asking," Torres pointed out. He grinned sheepishly as they stepped onto the turbolift.

"Am I _still_ that easy to read?" he complained lightly.

"Harry 'Read Me Like A Book' Kim," she joked, repeating one of the nicknames Tom had given the ensign over the years. "It's not always a bad thing, Harry."

"Sometimes I wish the entire ship didn't know my business before I did."

Torres gave a tight smile at that. "Believe me, Starfleet, on this ship, everybody knows everybody's business, no matter how easy or hard you are to read."

Kim heard the bitter edge to her voice and started putting things together, remembering the all-too-recent event in the mess hall, which reminded him of his original question that he was going to ask before being distracted by comments about how easy he was to read. "Are things okay between you and Tom?" he asked, his words coming out in a rush. Torres blinked in surprise at the question.

"Why?" she asked cautiously, wondering if he knew something she didn't.

"Well, after what happened in the mess hall, I mean, with what Seven said…" His voice trailed off at her glare at hearing the name of the person who currently held the honor of being B'Elanna's least favorite. "I just haven't seen you two together much since then," he finished lamely.

"Neelix's party last night?" she prompted, then sighed. "And with the exception of that ridiculous 'Ancestor's Eve' nonsense, how much have you seen me outside engineering at all since we started the core modifications?"

"Oh," he said lamely, realizing she was right. She _had_ been spending quite a lot of time in engineering lately. And he did have lunch with her and Tom the other day, and they were just fine. He gave her an apologetic grin. "I guess all this sleep deprivation is making me imagine things that aren't there."

She accepted the unspoken apology with a slight smile of her own. "Tom and I have never advertised our relationship, Harry. You of all people should know that."

"I do," he confirmed. "I also know that that's because you don't like people talking about it, and, well, there was a lot of talk recently." Her eyes narrowed to a glare at the reminder. "I just wanted to make sure you guys are okay."

"Everything's fine," she assured him. She shot him a teasing grin as the turbolift doors slid open on the second deck. "We're not going to start custody battles over the friends any time soon."

"Well, that's a relief," he muttered as he followed the chief engineer into the mess hall. She paused for the briefest second to scan the room before heading toward the viewports, where Paris was sitting, a bound book in one hand and a mug of Neelix's coffee substitute in the other. He was so engrossed in the book that he didn't look up as they approached, nor as they stood there, waiting for a response. It wasn't until B'Elanna kicked his feet off the bulkhead where they were resting that he looked up in surprise to see her arms crossed over her chest, her eyebrows raised, and Harry standing next to her, just looking amused.

"Hey," he said quickly, righting himself and scooting over to make room. He gave them both an apologetic smile. "Guess I was more into the book than I realized."

"Good reading?" B'Elanna asked. She slid onto the couch next to them and gave his arm a quick squeeze before releasing it, which was as much of a public display of affection as she would give. "How's dinner today?"

"Haven't had any yet," he admitted, "but from what I've seen, I'm replicating something. I recommend the same, if you have the rations."

"Great," Kim muttered. "I seem to have lost those playing pool last week." Paris grinned; Torres just rolled her eyes.

"Haven't you learned your lesson yet, Harry?" Seeming to realize that some of her meals came from those rations, she quickly added, "On second thought, keep playing pool. You know how I feel about anything involving leola root."

"At least you didn't have to have leola root stew every day for a month," Paris pointed out with a slight shudder. He gave her a quick grin to show that he was joking about his time in the brig before turning to Kim. "I'll make it up to you, Harry. How about a chapter of Captain Proton and dinner in the holodeck, once you guys are done with these modifications?"

"Sure," Kim said with a shrug. "I'm going to grab dinner." He rose to head toward the galley to pick up a tray, while Torres and Paris headed for the replicator before they relocated to a table.

They were about halfway into the meal before Torres brought up the book again. "You seem to be really getting into this whole Colonel Paris thing," she said casually.

"This book is amazing," he said, his voice enthusiastic. "If my dad had told me half of this stuff that he had done during the third world war, I would have found that era in history a lot more exciting." Getting blank looks from his dinner companions, he explained, "Before he was part of the Mars missions, Colonel Paris flew some of the most advanced planes for the United States Air Force. Before the ceasefire, he shot down a total of seventeen enemy planes."

"So?" Kim asked with a shrug, taking another bite of his leola root pasta. "You've taken out more than that."

"His planes didn't have phasers or warp drive," Paris pointed out. "Seventeen was a huge number those days, enough so that they have a list of pilots, from when planes first appeared in warfare in the first world war through the third, who were double aces—had shot down a total of ten enemy planes. He was a triple ace." He bit into his grilled cheese sandwich and chewed contemplatively. "The book is a good balance of his part in the war and his life outside the cockpit, but so far, he didn't seem to _have_ much of a life outside the cockpit. All of the people he spent time with were fellow pilots. There was one he went to flight school with who I think he was a little in love with, but he never actually said so."

"Was that his wife?" Torres asked. Paris shook his head.

"He hasn't mentioned his wife yet. At least, I don't think he has. No, this was a Lieutenant Maggie Love, but nothing ever happened between them. She married someone else and died during the war." He glanced over at the book. "He has an entire chapter about his flight surgeon while he was at Patrick Air Force Base. That's where I am now."

"An entire chapter about his doctor?" Kim asked, disbelieving. "Don't let the Doctor know about that. Somehow, it'll go to his head."

Paris grinned at the comment. "Well, for as impressive as our Doc is, he doesn't have anything on Dr. Savage. I know he wrote this a number of years after the fact, but it sounds like she was somewhat of a mother figure for him, which he had never had before."

"Savage?" Torres interrupted with a frown. "Wasn't that Dr. Anika Paris' maiden name?"

"Yeah," Paris confirmed with a nod. "I think he might have married one of her daughters, but he didn't know that at this point. At this point in the book, getting married and having kids was pretty much the furthest thing from his mind. He was completely focused on doing his duties."

Kim scoffed. "Well, I guess there are some things that get diluted in the genome over that many generations," he joked. Paris grinned at the dig before continuing.

"Something big is about to happen, though," he said. "I would have to brush up on my history, but he's writing about a biological weapon facility in the Virgin Islands. I don't remember it being a factor in the war, so I'm thinking that maybe _this_ Dr. Savage had something to do with eliminating it." He lapsed into silence for a second. "And judging by the list of commendations that she received, which stopped in this year, I think that that was the last thing she did."


	19. 2042

"You don't have to do this, Doc," 1st Lt Sam Paris said quietly, leaning against the doorframe of his flight surgeon's open office.

Colonel Bryndis Savage glanced up from her open trunk at the young pilot. "Yes, I do, Paris," she replied before returning to her packing. "There is no other option."

"There's always another option!" Paris exclaimed. "This mission is suicide! Everyone knows that."

"It's not suicide, Sam," Savage replied. "It's sacrifice. Someone has to do this, and that someone is me."

"It doesn't have to be you," Paris argued. "Think about this, Colonel! You have an important position, people who rely on you. You have grandchildren. Think about them."

"Trying to make me feel old, Paris?" Savage asked, raising an eyebrow. He could tell that she was trying to keep her voice light, but he could hear the heaviness behind her words, and realized that this wasn't a decision that she had made without serious debate. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "I am thinking about my grandchildren. I'm thinking about how I want them to live, to grow up in a world where they don't have to worry about where the next bomb will be coming from or whether or not they'll be able to walk home from school that day without being stopped by soldiers."

Like her, he softened his tone. "You have a family, Colonel. Someone else can do this, someone who doesn't have people waiting for them back home. I can do this."

"Yes, that's a possibility," Savage said sarcastically. "I'll teach you a lifetime's worth of experience dealing with infectious diseases in the next two hours. No, Sam, this is my job and my job only."

The use of his first name threw him off, but only temporarily. "The odds of you coming out of this alive are infinitesimally small," he pointed out. "What about your husband and kids and grandkids? You know what this is going to do to them."

"Yes, I know that," Savage replied softly. Her eyes fell to her desk and blinked rapidly, trying to stop the flow of tears that had accumulated there. She looked back up at him, those already-liquid green eyes even more watery than usual. "But they know it, too. They wear the uniform and know the risks involved in that." She glanced down at the framed photograph in her hands, the one of her family, everyone in uniform and smiling dutifully for the camera. "I'm fifty-seven, Sam. Ever since this all began fourteen years ago, I've been preparing myself for the knowledge that any day could be my last, and despite that, I've had a good life. I've accomplished all of my goals. I raised my children to be good adults, I've held my grandchildren. I've been a student, I've been a teacher, a doctor, a researcher, and I hope, a friend." She paused momentarily, studying the young pilot in front of her. "Other people should get those chances too. You should get your turn to be part of a family, to be married, to hold your children and your grandchildren."

"There'll be time for that," Paris said dismissively, "when this war is over. But tonight—"

"No, Sam," Savage interrupted with a swift shake of her head. "Not when this war is over. You can't just wait for these things. This war will never be over. I took my first military science course for ROTC less than two weeks after 9/11. The war on terror turned into Afghanistan, which turned into Iraq, then Iran, then it was Korea, then Colonel Green and ecoterrorism and the Eastern Coalition. It's been almost forty years, and we're essentially still fighting the same fight. If I had waited for the good things in life until after the war, I wouldn't have married Deven, wouldn't have those kids and grandkids."

"But you were entitled to those things. Not all of us have those luxuries. Children and grandchildren... that's your life. This is mine."

"They don't own you, Sam," Savage said quietly. "At least, they shouldn't. You have a right to be happy, just like the rest of us." She opened her mouth to say more, but the chirping of her communication link interrupted her. She stared down at the display, her expression an odd mixture of horror and love. "That's Dev. I need to take this."

"I know," Paris said quietly, turning to leave.

"Sam," Savage called out, interrupting his departure. "I'm getting on that plane in two hours."

"I know, Colonel," he replied. He gave her a sad smile. "You should tell that to your husband." He turned again, pulling the door closed behind him.

To someone unfamiliar with the atmospheric fliers, the sounds around base at Cape Canaveral would have been distracting, to say the least. The fliers didn't sound quite like any other airplane or jet, the maintenance vehicles operated at a different frequency than those of other bases, and even the personnel seemed to be talking in their own different language. To those who have been stationed at Cape Canaveral for as long as Dr. Bryndis Savage, it was just white noise.

"Are you ready, Doc?" Captain Anderson asked as he approached the colonel, already in full flight gear, checking out her parachute.

"As ready as I'm going to be," Savage replied, giving him a shaky smile. "Jump from a standard altitude two klicks from the facility, right?"

"Roger," Poker replied. "And then it's up to your good old Army Ranger training to get you in and get this taken care of."

"Ranger training," Savage snorted, knowing that her distant Ranger Challenge days in ROTC were as close as she had come to that. "I'm far too old for this. Okay, Poker, let's get this show on the road."

"Yes, ma'am," Anderson said, giving a crisp nod as he swung into the cockpit. Savage gestured for one of the maintenance crew to bring her a step ladder, which she used to hoist herself into the rear compartment.

She was about to signal for the ladder to be taken away when she saw 1st Lt Sam Paris approach in his flight gear. "Permission to board, ma'am!" he called up to her over the noise.

"I wasn't aware we needed two pilots for this mission, Lieutenant," Savage shouted back.

He hesitated, and then replied, "We don't. I'm here for moral support." Savage knew it probably wasn't the best idea he had come up with, but nodded her assent anyway.

They were silent for the first several moments of the flight before Savage broke the silence. "You didn't need to come, Sam. I'm okay."

"I know, Doc," Paris replied. "But I did need to come, for me if not for you." He hesitated, not sure what to say. His mind kept going back to that thin envelope Father O'Reilly had handed him at Augustine years before and the letter it contained, the one from the mother he had never known, the page filled with hopes and dreams for a better life for him than she could ever provide. "I wanted to thank you, ma'am, for everything you've done for me over these past few years. I never had a mother, but I… I used to wish I had one, and when I did, she was always someone like you."

"I've had a lot of practice." She tried to make it a joke, but the thought of her five kids and what this would do to them made the words fall flat. "But, thank you, Sam. You're a good man; I've always thought that. I wouldn't have wasted my time on you if I thought otherwise. You're going to be fine. You have a good head and a good heart."

"Two minutes to the jump site, ma'am," Poker's voice drifted in over the headsets of the two passengers.

Savage closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. She pulled her dog tags out from under her flightsuit, revealing many more tags than usual. Those thin pieces of metal were a source of many jokes around the Atmospheric Flier Team; Paris had questioned her about that once, and she explained that they were extra tags from her husband and children, and that wearing them with her was her only way of keeping them close, as they were spread around the world in various postings and positions in the war. She flipped through them slowly, mouthing something silently before she closed her fist around the tags, then returned them to their previous location under her uniform before raising her eyes to the young pilot in front of her again. "Take care, Sam. Just promise me that you go and live your own life."

Paris's eyes widened slightly when he saw the jump lights change from red to green. Savage was staring at him intently, but he found himself incapable of speaking, knowing that this would be the last chance he had to see this woman who had helped him grow so much over the last three years.

Instead of replying, he straightened the best he could in his seat in the cargo hold, snapping a quick salute. Savage gave him a quick grin before she also straightened to attention, returning the salute. As she lowered her arm, she leaned out of the compartment, beginning her descent to the rainforest below.

"I promise!" Paris called out a moment later, his words drowned out by the rushing wind as the flier quickly began its ascent. He continued to watch the white parachute until it disappeared from view.


	20. 2042

Captain Sam Paris adjusted the lapels of his uniform and swept away specks of imaginary dirt, knowing that he was only stalling. It had been four weeks since the Virgin Islands mission, which was about the average length of time it took a branch of the US military to turn remains over to the family for a funeral. In this case, there were no remains to turn over, but if the Army could combine two ceremonies into one, it would do that. Paris doubted that Dr. Savage would care much about the posthumous Congressional Medal of Honor, but, like funerals, such things were for those left living, not the deceased.

The ceremonies in Washington, DC were nice, very formal, with some very important people saying very impressive things about the physician he doubted they had ever met. Those ceremonies weren't about remembering Bryndis Savage the person, but Colonel Bryndis Savage, MD, MPH, DTM&H, the flight surgeon, topical medicine expert, Chief of Preventive Medicine, and savior of the western world. The private reception at the Savage household was about remembering the person.

With a deep breath, Paris entered the open door, realizing as he did so that, even after three years worth of invitations to dinners and gathering at that house, he had never actually crossed that threshold, always finding an excuse not to come. He nodded at Lt. Colonel Catherine Vlasnik as he walked by. It had been nearly two years since she left the Atmospheric Flight Team to have a baby, but once a member of the team, always a member. He made a mental note to go back later and talk to her and find out what she had been up to.

"Glad you could make it, Genie," General Banks said quietly at Paris's nod.

"I enjoyed your speech at the ceremony, sir," Paris replied.

"I meant every word." Paris nodded at this, taking the time to glance around the room. He recognized most of the people around him, which came as a surprise. He never considered himself much of social person, and he hadn't thought he even knew that many people. Every living member of the team, past and present; Savage's sister Kajana with her husband, the former Olympic gold medalists Paris helped rescue from Finland a year and half before; John and Halle Martinez with their son; Dr. Deven Savage wearing a well-tailored civilian suit. He nodded to those who glanced his way, murmuring greetings as he made his way through the room.

He had been at the reception for about half an hour before making his way over to the buffet line. He was contemplating what he felt like eating - if anything - when someone bumped into him. He spun in surprise, finding himself staring at a face that was only familiar through photographs. "I'm sorry, sir," 2LT Savage said.

"That's okay," he replied. There were many similarities between this young woman and the older one they were mourning, but obvious differences as well. Her dark hair, braided and pinned up, was obviously long and lacked any red coloring; her eyes had the same exotic slant from Finnish ancestry, but were a liquid blue instead of clear green; both had athletic builds, but the lieutenant was tall, whereas her mother had been petite in every sense of the word. "Anika, right?"

She frowned slightly, her head tilting to the side as she studied him. "How did you know?"

He gave her a slow grin as he reached forward, lightly touching the silver caduceus pin on her lapel. "I may just be a flyboy, but I can tell the difference between medical service and Army intelligence."

She had to smile at that, giving his powers of deduction a small nod. "That's right, sir. You can call me Nik. Everyone does."

"Sam Paris," he replied, holding out his hand. She shook it, still studying him.

"Do you want to get out of here?" she finally asked.

He blinked in surprise. "What? Shouldn't you stay?"

Those light blue eyes narrowed slightly. "Why? So I can hear more people tell me how sorry they are that my mom's dead?" She looked down, then back up at him, then off to the side. "I'm not much for large groups of people all feeling sorry for themselves."

"Okay," he said, nodding slowly, wondering why he was agreeing to that. "Let's get out of here."

On their way toward the door, they passed the other Savage twin, looking identical to the first save for a different method of pinning her hair up and a different branch pin on her lapel. Nik said a few words to her in a language Paris didn't recognize, earning a nod and a few words back in response before Anja turned away.

"Sami," Nik said as an explanation as they headed down the sidewalk. "The language I spoke with Anja. They're a group of people in the northern part of the Scandinavian countries, traditionally known as reindeer herders. Mom's grandmother was Sami. Actually, technically, anyone who has a grandparent who speaks the language is Sami, so I guess I am, too, and so will be my grandkids." She lapsed into silence. "I'm going to miss that, speaking strange Scandinavian languages with my mother. Anja speaks Sami, Norwegian, and Swedish, same as me, and I'm pretty sure Halle, Nate, and Erik would know how to ask where the bathroom was if they were ever deposited in a Scandinavian country, but it's not the same." She glanced up at Paris, an apologetic smile on her face. "Sorry. This must be strange to you, listening to your doctor's daughter talk about her as you're skipping her memorial service to go for a walk."

"Well, it's not a situation I've ever been in before," he admitted with a smile, "but that's okay."

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Nik unbuttoned her jacket, taking it off and slinging it over her shoulder. A minute later, when she slipped off the black heeled shoes, Paris had to laugh. "What?" she asked.

"No, I can't tell you're going to be a doctor," he joked. "I have never seen anybody as relaxed about uniform regulations as those in the medical corps. I couldn't even tell you the number of times I saw your mother walking around outside without her ACU jacket or a beret."

Savage laughed. "She did it so she wouldn't be showing rank." Her smile faltered for a moment. "She would say that they won't salute if they don't know her rank, and she could do without all the saluting stuff. Sometimes, she'd purposely carry around empty boxes so her hands would be too full to salute." Her voice grew thick as she spoke, her eyes filling with tears. "Damn it," she managing, giving him a weak smile as she struggled to wipe away her tears, not an easy feat when one hand was holding a service uniform jacket and the other a pair of shoes. "I hate this," she muttered at nothing in particular. "I'll be doing fine, and then the stupidest little thing will have me reduced to a sobbing mess." She turned away, doing her best to cover her face with her hands.

"Hey," Paris said, taking a step closer to her. Without really knowing why, he wrapped his arms around her, letting her cry on his shoulder. "It's okay."

After a few minutes of quiet sobbing, she stepped back, giving him an apologetic smile as she tried to erase the evidence of tears from her cheeks. "I'm okay now."

His hands still free, Paris gently wiped her tears away with his thumbs, an understanding smile on his face. "You're allowed to break down every once in awhile. I was just amazed at how composed you were."

"Some composure," Savage said sarcastically. "You must think I'm a total nut job."

"No," he said, honestly. "I don't." She studied him for a minute with that same unreadable expression on her face she had worn at the buffet line before turning away and starting walking again. He easily fell into step, and they walked in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again. "Here, let me take your jacket," he offered.

"I'm fine," she said with a laugh. "One small breakdown, and now you think I'm fragile."

"No, I don't," he assured. "It's just, you're walking through the grass without even your shoes on. The least I can do is act like a gentleman and carry your jacket."

She grinned and nodded, handing the blue coat over without making eye contact. Sensing that a change in subject was what Nik needed, Paris commented, "I noticed your father was in civvies. Did he resign his commission?"

Savage nodded. "Yeah, he did that they day after they confirmed Mom's death. She was only reason he stayed in after his conscription was over. They were going to resign together, after she reached the thirty year mark, get nice civilian jobs up in DC." She looked sideways at Paris. "The thirty-first anniversary of her commissioning was in June, but she just couldn't leave the squad."

"I'm sorry," he said honestly. If she had resigned when she was planning to, she wouldn't have been on that mission, would still be alive and well and practicing in Washington, DC, would still be around to joke with her children and spoil her grandchildren.

"Don't be," she said emphatically, stopping to look at him straight on. "Don't be sorry. She loved her job, loved working with you guys. I used to accuse her of liking her pilots more than her own children."

"That's not true," he said forcefully, shaking his head. "That couldn't be further from the truth. She loved you guys, was so proud of you. She told us so many stories of her children that I feel like we grew up together." He reached into the pocket of his uniform jacket, pulled out a set of dog tags and the remnants of a photograph. He studied them for a minute silently. "After the site cooled down, I was in the group that got permission to go investigate. I found these about half a kilometer away." He handed them over to her. "She said she wore the extra tags around her neck so she could always have her family close, since everyone was always spread around the world. I was going to give these to your father, but I figured you would know better than I what your mother wanted done with them."

"Thank you," she said softly, glancing at the objects in her hand. She studied the photograph, giving a sad smile. "It's kinda symbolic, isn't it?" The picture, one that Dr. Savage kept in her flight suit, was a candid shot of the family the previous Christmas, everyone laughing and joking around, no uniforms in sight. While singed around the edges, everyone was still visible—except Dr. Savage's head, which had burned off.

"Yeah," he replied, just as soft. "So, you see, she was always thinking about you guys. We were her job, but you were her life."

"I know," she said, looking up at him again, squinting slightly against the sunlight. "It's just something that kids say to their parents when they're angry. Didn't you ever say anything that you knew wasn't true just to make your parents feel guilty?" She studied him closer, her eyes narrowing further. "No," she said softly. "No, I guess you didn't." She smiled at his bewildered expression. "She talked about you guys, too. Wildcat and her highly unorthodox yet highly effective leadership skills; Penny, the class clown with a heart of gold; Magic, walking away from a successful career as a pilot to start a family; Poker, who couldn't manage to win a single hand of that game." Her smile widened. "So why do they call you Genie? Do you live in an ancient lamp, grant three wishes to whoever wakes you up?"

"Hardly," he said with a laugh. "It's French, _Genie_. I was always reading growing up and have this endless bank of useless trivia, so in flight school, they called me The Genius, decided it needed a French flavor due to my last name."

"I like it," she declared. She turned to study him again, and he fought the urge to look away. There was something about that expression, that intense gaze of those light blue eyes, that made him feel like she somehow knew his secrets. "Thanks."

"For what?"

She shrugged, her eyes again on the grass in front of her, making sure she didn't step anything that would hurt her feet. "For walking with me, talking with me. For not saying that you're sorry my mom's dead, for talking about her like she was a person and not just this self-sacrificing American hero. That means a lot to me." She had stopped walking again, was again studying him with that same gaze. Without him even realizing what was going on, she rose on her toes, kissing him lightly on the lips.

"Well, Captain Paris," she said, her tone almost teasing as she slipped her shoes back on. "We're back at the house, so I guess we should return to the party. Thanks again for the walk." She held her hand out for her coat.

"You can at least call me Sam," he said as he handed it over, finally recovering his voice from the surprise of her kiss.

"Is that what everyone calls you?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

"No," he replied honestly. "Nobody calls me Sam."

She grinned at that. "Then I'll call you Sam," she replied. "I go to med school in DC, but I'm sure you knew that already. Next time you're in the area, look me up."

"I will," he promised. "And you know where to find me."

"That I do," she replied. She grinned again before turning away toward the house, taking the stone walk up to the front door, where she accepted the sympathies of one of the pilots as he was leaving, slipping back into the role of mournful daughter as if the walk hadn't happened. Paris watched her for a moment until she disappeared inside the house.

He didn't return to the gathering, choosing instead to walk through base back to his apartment. As he reached the door to his building, he couldn't help but shake his head in wonder. Somehow, he doubted 2LT Anika Savage was what Dr. Savage had in mind when she told him to go out and live his life.

 _Or maybe,_ a small voice told him, reminding him of all the stories his former physician had told him of her youngest daughter, all the invitations to dinner at their house when the twins were on break from school, _maybe this is exactly what she had in mind_. He rolled his eyes at the thought and pushed it to the back of his brain, electing to take the stairs up to his twelfth floor apartment to help clear his mind. He had a mission to do, and being distracted by a girl, no matter how smart, beautiful, and intriguing that girl may be, would never do.


	21. 2375

Ensign Tom Paris was typing on a PADD and listening to the music on his jukebox when the doors to his quarters slid open unexpectedly, allowing entry to one half-Klingon chief engineer. "Well, this is a surprise," he quipped, glancing at the chronometer as she headed for the replicator, noting that it was barely 1630. She had rarely been leaving Engineering before the early morning hours lately.

She turned and grinned at him, another surprise. "We just finished the modifications," she informed him, then frowned at the replicator. "Damn. Out of rations."

"Use mine," Paris offered automatically, not getting up from his chair. She knew his codes. After retrieving her order from the replicator, she crossed the room, seating herself on Paris's lap before turning to kiss him. He tasted the warm raktajino on her mouth. "Want to celebrate finishing the modifications?" he asked.

She arched her eyebrows. "What did you have in mind?" she asked.

He grinned. "I was thinking dinner on the holodeck, but if you had something else in mind…" he let his voice trail off.

"Dinner sounds like a good start."

"How am I for rations?"

"You have enough." She adjusted herself slightly on his lap, giving a contented sigh as she leaned back against him. No wonder; it was probably the first time she had given herself to relax in the last few weeks. He snaked an arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head before returning his attention to his PADD. "What are you working on?" she finally asked.

"I'm writing a letter to my father for the next datastream," he replied. It was the first letter he had written to Admiral Paris since his time in the brig. "I've actually been thinking about him a lot lately. Tomorrow would be the six year anniversary of the last time we saw each other face to face—and those weren't the best of all circumstances." It had actually been at the end of his trial, as the guards escorted him to the shuttle waiting to take him to Auckland. "I wanted to let him know about Colonel Paris's book, since he was the one who first told me about him."

"How was the book?"

"It was good," he said honestly. "Thank you again for it. You can borrow it sometime if you want."

"That's okay," she replied automatically, no surprise to him. Her choice of reading material ran along the lines of technical manuals and Klingon romance novels. "Was he the man you thought he was?"

"Not exactly," Paris replied thoughtfully. "If anything, he was even more larger than life than the stories from my father. He started with literally nothing—no parents, no home, no right to hope or dream for anything—and despite those difficult circumstances, he not only made something of himself, he made something _amazing_ of himself. I can't help but feel a little bit inadequate after reading about it."

"I don't know," Torres said thoughtfully. "I see a lot of similarities between the two of you."

He smiled ironically at her words. "If by similarities, you mean complete opposites, then yes. My father's an admiral, I had a supportive mother and sisters, went to the right schools, and still managed to screw everything up."

"I meant your life here on _Voyager_ ," Torres corrected. "You started with a lousy reputation, and, honestly, a lousy attitude, but you rose above that and became a respected member of the senior staff. Everyone on this ship owes their lives to some of your more heroic—and idiotic—acts. You even have your own record for the books," she pointed out, referring to his flight at warp ten.

"I've had some help," he said with a grin, leaning forward to give her a kiss.

She rolled her eyes at the compliment. "You're a good man, Tom. Do you think I'd be wasting my time with you if you weren't?"

"Guess not," he said with a roguish grin. "You'll just have to stick around to keep me honest."

"Right," she said dryly. "So what are we doing about dinner?"

"It's your celebration. You pick."

She thought about it for a minute. "How about, in honor of Colonel Samuel Thomas Paris, that Mars program you have? The one with the automobile?"

"The '57 Chevy?" he asked with a grin. They haven't used that program in awhile, after he started working on the Camero, but the Chevy had definite advantages over the Camero—namely, a larger backseat.

"Yeah," she replied, returning his grin. "We can replicate a picnic."

"Sounds good," he murmured, leaning in for another kiss. He decided that B'Elanna had a point—no matter the number of impressive things that Colonel Sam Paris had done in the course of his life, he wouldn't trade lives with him for a second. He liked exactly where he was now.


	22. 2065

"Mission control, come in. Mission control, please respond," Colonel Sam Paris said with a laugh.

"We hear ya, Colonel," Captain Shane Herzog drawled. "You don't need to rub it in."

"Just wanted to make sure the feed was working," Paris teased. He knew the other pilots of Janus II were disappointed when he pulled rank and insisted on piloting the glider, but they took it well—as Herzog had put it, Paris had paid his dues. That didn't mean he was going to be nice about it, though. "How's the visual coming in?"

"Just fine, sir," Herzog replied with a laugh. "I still can't believe they're letting the geriatrics set do all the fun stuff. Has aerospace med cleared this?"

"Of course they have," Paris scoffed. "Like that was hard to get cleared. Dinner reservations at Mars' finest establishment, a couple of glasses of wine..."

"Watch it, Flyboy," Dr. Anika Paris chimed in with a warning tone. "It's not too late to declare you medically unfit to fly this mission."

"How's my blood pressure looking, Nik?" Paris teased. There was a pause on the other end of the comm.

"Don't push it, Sam, or I really will pull you," she replied. He had to laugh; despite running marathons and watching what she ate, his wife couldn't keep her blood pressure under control. Sam did the very minimum amount of exercise to pass his physical fitness tests and ate whatever he wanted and had the vital signs of a man thirty years his junior. "And it's a good thing I didn't marry you for your romantic side, if rehydrated pasta and powdered energy drinks are your idea of wining and dining."

"Love you too, Nik," Sam replied sarcastically. He was met with the laughter of several of his officers on the other end.

"Okay, guys, time to clear this up," Captain Holly Winnin, the public affairs officer, interjected. "We're broadcasting live to Mars and Earth in three minutes."

"Not many people on Mars other than mission control watching," Paris pointed out. "Probably because there's no one else on Mars. And there's a delay on the broadcast to Earth. Tell me again why I have to watch what I say?"

The other members of the Janus team laughed at his words, even as Winnin gave an exasperated sigh. "Sir, the delay to Earth is only about ten seconds. That's not very much time to edit you."

"I remember the good old days, when we measured the delay in minutes, not seconds," Paris said with a sigh, beginning his pre-flight checks. "It's all that Vulcan technology."

"Done a lot more good than bad," Winnin pointed out.

"You kids are all too young to remember the days when Japan was the manufacturer of high-tech goods," Paris said. "Now, if it doesn't say 'Made on Vulcan', nobody's buying it."

"You're dating yourself again, Colonel," Herzog warned. "Next thing you know, we'll be hearing about things you were doing when you were our age."

"When I was your age, Captain, I was flying all over the Earth, shooting down bad guys."

"Sure you can't pull him for medical reasons, Doc? Sounds like Alzheimer's to me."

"Tempting, but I don't think you could get to the hangar before broadcast," Dr. Paris informed Captain Herzog over the comm. Colonel Paris had to chuckle at his wife's dry sarcasm; sometimes he still couldn't believe how much he loved that woman.

"Okay, guys, as much as I hate to break this up, we're live in five seconds," Captain Winnin interjected.

Paris counted to five, watching for the red light of the comm signal. When he saw it, he began speaking. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of Mars and Earth," he began. "At least, good morning on Mars. This is Colonel Samuel Paris, commanding officer of Janus II. I'm here to take you along on the very first glider flight over the Martian plateau." He waited a beat. "Mission control, what is our status?"

"Janus II, you are cleared for take-off, over," Captain Herzog replied officially.

"Roger, mission control, starting engines." As soon as he flipped the switch, the plane was ready for take-off, unlike the planes he learned how to fly in, which had to be warmed up first. "Beginning take-off sequence." A second later, he was in the air.

"For those of you not familiar with Martian geography," Paris said, doing his best to keep talking, like Captain Winnin told him to do, "we are near the edges of the Southern Highlands, less than ten kilometers from the cliffs bordering Isidis Planitia, which is where we will descend to the Northern Lowlands, otherwise known as the Martian Plateau. We will be there in less than a minute." If they had timed it right, the sun would be rising over the plateau just as he descended over it.

"Beginning descent," he continued, angling the nose of the glider down toward the plateau, a steep drop, but not as much so as in the atmospheric fighters he flew near the beginning of his career. "Oh, wow," he breathed, forgetting temporarily to keep his comments professional. "I hope everyone out there is seeing this like I am." The sun was just appearing over the vast plains, a gold orb over flat land, the thin carbon dioxide atmosphere giving it a look unlike anything he had ever seen before. Even the other sunrises he had seen from the window of the command center, blocked by the cragged landscape, couldn't compare to this.

He flew into that sunrise in silence for a few moments before speaking again. "I'm going to use a few moments to monopolize the comm link for some personal notes. I just wanted to tell my wife, Nik, thanks for all of your love, support, and good humor over all these years. I couldn't have done it without you, and I don't think I would have wanted to try. My children, Conner, Gene, and Kristina, I'm proud of each of you, and I'm sure you'll succeed at whatever you put your mind to. And to my old friend from flight school, President James Monk," he paused dramatically, glad that nobody could see his mischievous grin, "take off your sunglasses and watch closely, because this is for you." He pulled hard on the controls, sending the glider into a roll. Keeping his eyes on the horizon as he was taught in flight school, he counted three and a half rolls before continuing his flight inverted. He could hear Herzog's quiet chuckle over the closed comm.

The rest of the flight plan, a wide loop over the north pole before returning to base at Noachis Terra, went exactly as planned. After locking down the glider, Paris exited the hangar and entered flight control, where he was met with a wild burst of applause. "Congratulations, sir," Captain Herzog said, shaking Paris's hand. "That was quite the flight. I especially enjoyed the rolls and inverted flying, but the weak stomachs of some of our Earth-bound viewers might not have thought it was so great."

Paris grinned and shrugged. "Nobody forced them to watch."

Herzog snorted. "And miss the first view of mankind's next expansion site? I doubt it."

"Not exactly the most hospitable place ever," Paris commented, glancing out the control center's viewport.

"So?" Herzog replied. "They're setting up colonies on the _moon_. At least Mars has day and night and seasons. I'm betting forty years, fifty max, we'll have people living full time here." He glanced out the transparent aluminum viewport and shook his head slowly. "That was quite the historic flight you took out there, Colonel."

"You're scheduled to take her out tomorrow, Captain. And none of those weak-stomached Earth-bound citizens will be watching, so you can do whatever stunts you want."

"That's just the point, Colonel," Herzog said with a frown. "Nobody will be watching. Nobody remembers the second guy. It's nothing historic."

"There's more to life than flying, Captain."

Herzog shrugged. "Maybe for you. Some of us don't have those kind of choices. This is what I was born and trained to do."

Paris knew Herzog's file, just as he knew those of everyone else who was part of Janus II. When the war ended twelve years ago, he was one of thousands of war orphans left without a plan or place to go. If it weren't for all the government regulations, he and Nik would have adopted a dozen or so of them, but they weren't given that option. Herzog was one of the fortunate ones bright enough to get a scholarship to continue his education, earning a spot at Randolph-Macon Academy, Maggie Johnson Love's alma mater. It wasn't much of a stretch for him to go from R-MA to the Air Force Academy, and after graduation with a degree in aerospace engineering, quickly distinguished himself as an astronaut, earning him a position on Janus II as a newly promoted captain. "I was eleven when Colonel Green blew up Grand Coulee Dam, was in the first group sent from the orphanage to military school. Augustine Military School for Boys, in my case." He smiled at the look of surprise on Herzog's face.

"You, sir?" he asked in amazement. "But, you're a decorated fighter pilot, a highly educated officer. You're _married_."

"Yes," Paris said with a nod. "We were fortunate. One of my friends from flight school, Maggie, wasn't so lucky. When she was shot down a year and a half after her wedding, the Air Force still hadn't acknowledged her marriage. Her husband never did get permission to bury her." Even more than twenty-five years later, thoughts of how the Air Force treated the Love family still made him angry. He pushed those thoughts aside and turned his attention back to Herzog. "I'm going to give you some advice, something that was told to me years ago by the person who probably had the greatest impact on my life. They don't own you. Or at least, they shouldn't. You have the right to be happy. You can go out and live your life." He caught sight of Nik approaching them, her medical bag in hand, and grinned. "And now I'm going to tell you something that she neglected to tell me: stay away from my daughter."

"I heard that, Flyboy," Dr. Paris said with a roll of her eyes. "Krissy's only eighteen and is safe on Earth, far too busy studying archeology to be distracted by Shane. No offense."

"None taken."

Dr. Anika Paris turned back to her husband. "You are overdue a post-flight check. Do I have to make it an order, Colonel?"

Paris turned to Nik with a grin. Even twenty-six years after he met her, he could honestly say there wasn't a minute that went by that he wasn't still intrigued by her. She was no longer the twenty-two-year-old second lieutenant who skipped her mother's memorial to go for a walk without her shoes, no longer the stubborn and insistent young woman who absolutely refused to cut him off and let him back out of a date, but that didn't mean he wasn't completely in love with the woman she became. The long dark hair was now streaked with gray and cut into a stylish bob, there were lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth that weren't there before, but those liquid blue eyes were just as clear, and nothing could ever touch that sense of humor. There were still moments when she smiled or tucked a lock of hair behind her ear that he did a double-take, sure that it was almost thirty years before, when he was a first lieutenant and talking to Colonel Bryndis Savage, but then the moment would pass, and all that was left was the woman he fell in love with despite his best efforts, the only person he ever even considered growing old with and raising a family with. His grin widened, his eyes twinkling mischievously, as he responded to her comment. "I wasn't aware you outranked me, Colonel."

She grinned in reply before rolling her eyes. She grabbed his hand and led him toward the makeshift exam room, not needing to pressure him to follow her anywhere she wanted to go. Sure, a historic flight over the plains of Mars was no small thing, but he was certainly glad it wasn't the only thing he had going for him.


End file.
